September 25-27, 2011:

What a rush-about these past three days, trying to get the house in order, ready for some friends who will spend next week here, and then the rental agency’s clients. Winding down various projects. Seeing all my friends for the last song of the migrating swallow. Summer has returned and is glorious. Since I missed it before (it was in April!) am enjoying it now.

And of course suddenly several editors are sending me last-minute revision questions.

Book stuff:

I worked on the revisions and layout stuff for Bug Off: Creepy, Crawly Poems, Last Laughs: Animal Epitaphs, wrote a new chapter on the first book of The Seelie Wars, new poems for my poem-a-day project, discussed where everything is and what needs to be nudged with my-ever wonderful agent Elizabeth. I also challenged two young Scottish artist/illustrators to send stuff to three editors whose names I gave them. Am reading a friend’s page-turner mss. Finished reading Jaques D’Amboise’s I Was a Dancer, useful if I ever actually write that ballet novel or do a memoir that’s longer than 30 pages.

Am afraid to get stuck into something longer until I’m back home. So I dither and bumble about and feel half-alive as a writer.

Other stuff:

Had a lovely lunch with Deb and Bob, my farewell lunch with them, at a Thai/Japanese restaurant in town we all love. Bento boxes–just saying! Went to the Hepburn Gardens Assn annual meeting, spent a last afternoon in Christine’s sitooterie discussing art and literature, and the passage of time.

Here’s a poem that I wrote about how I am feeling these days:

The Swallow Says Farewell

Like a strange migrating bird,

I leave at the tag end of your cool summer,

winging my way across the ocean

to a far colder winter than you will ever know.

It defies intuition, this reversed snowbirding,

but since my mind does not work, nor my imagination,

once the temperature soars into the 80s,

this backward migration is what I have to do.

The young readers of the world

will never know how I suffer for my art.

© 2011 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved

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