November 29th, the next to last day of NaNoWriMo and the first day that the library where I work is returning to “normal” hours – in the middle of the pandemic. Morally and psychologically, I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Also, I just typed THE END on a novel and this is traditionally when I give myself some days off to drink hot cocoa and think existential thoughts.

In writerly news, I had one of several broker services I formerly wrote for send me a kindly reminder that it has been 2 years!! since I wrote for them. I wrote something really quick to renew my account – and felt a piece of my soul die.

Why is it I get paid more to write ad copy for a business than to provide an essential service to my community?

I’m saying all of this as November winds down and I end yet another ridiculously terrible manuscript I’m not getting paid to write. No one (except “God”) particularly cares if I write or not – or go to church or not – or pray or not. Nothing seems to change one way or the other. And yet, these things feed my soul.

Why are our values so crazy sometimes?

Sometimes an act of kindness, especially suicidally stupid kindness can make all the difference. Is the moral of the story. I guess. Do stories need to have morals?

All I know is this: I was determined to have Santha meet the dragons. I knew if the humans and dragons started talking, really talking, things were bound to change – which was why the arch-villain was willing to Do Anything to make sure that conversation Did Not Happen. I feel like there is a metaphor for life in there somewhere….

In real life, I prefer cats to dragons, because of the fur and the purring noises. Also – right – because they actually exist.