The Kansas City Sky

I hope not to revert to my old too-many-pictures mode, and do more writing with words instead, but here is a photo of the latest sunset.  I don't do sunrises, because, well, my windows just won't go there. Sure, I could go outside . . . but, kind of early, don't you think?

I also admit to being slightly heavy-handed with the photoshopping, as always, in an effort to make the picture look more like what I saw with my own eyes. It varies.

perhaps, on acid

The Soft Underbelly of Literature

I found myself reading yet another blog entry with tips on how to blog effectively. I can never pass those up, which tells me that I continue to be interested in getting people to read my blog. At the same time, I kind of keep my blog a secret from people I know in my actual face-to-face life. Why is that?

Actually, I have given out the URL to maybe four people, all of whom seemed to me to be hip, avid consumers of literature.  None of them became readers.  I cringe to think of how they may have visited my blog after I gave them the link, read some, then retreated as gracefully as they could, never to mention it again. I like to think they never even looked at it, yet my reasoning for that sort of response has to be that they regard blogs so negatively that they don't bother looking. Either way is a little pathetic.

It seems much more acceptable to Write a Novel. However, judging by the frequency of my blog posts, it would require too much time to finish a novel, and such an endeavor would take me way beyond my death.

Here's the deal. I retired so long ago, now, that I should have completed at least two or three novels. I don't know if I have ADD or what, and I've never been one of those heavy-duty people who can deal with medications--they wouldn't let me into Woodstock...  It's a philosophical problem, the journey vs the destination thing.

Recently I stumbled across a bit of family history that made me think we might be descended from Italian nobility.  I know. Big deal. Everyone in Italy is the same way. I followed the line down from the Marchese di Squillace, and back from my great-grandfather, but I haven't made those two lines meet. A friend said, just say they do.  Who's to know?  Who would question it?

So, in honor of the Trump era of post-credibility, yeah, I'm working on a novel. Which, by the way, means anything I do at least up to its completion, no matter how disreputable, is merely research.  Upon publishing, the bio on the back cover may mention something about the Marchese, with a picture, as he was a handsome man. We'll see.