Mucking about in Nova Scotia

Well, it's that time of year when I brave the eastern ocean air and family tempests. And lucky me, I brought the shitty weather from Toronto with me, so while Toronto begins to bask in a rarely seen spot of dryness and warmth (usually Toronto summers are roasting, but nae so much this year), Nova Scotia turns very cool and rather wet.

A very sinister kind of torture for me, given the fact that I despise winter -- summer is the only season I really look forward as spring can still host snow and fall only heralds the approaching six months of misery and cold.

The family, of course, is doing their very best to drive each of us into a frenzy. Tears. Tempers. Sulking. And amusingly enough, not by me. Not yet, at any rate. In a few more days, I will weary of being genial and fence-sitting, and will eventually crack and explode.

Family. Such fine fun.

So I've really only spent the last few days laying low, sleeping, staying out of the rain and reading almost non-stop (re-read Wilde's The Picture Of Dorian Gray as I disliked it while in high school -- and am very happy I did). Tomorrow is possibly sunny -- I say possibly, because it is very likely a cold, damp fog will roll in off the ocean. It has a funny way of doing that here.

But the best part of this vacation is that it's given me a much-needed breather -- time to reassess, gather my remaining shreds of ego and regroup for the last push. Time is running short, and I have lots to do.

I will make this writing thing work if it kills me.
Which it may very likely do.

But at the very least, people can sit back and say, "She was stubborn as hell -- but she still barrelled through when things turned heinous."

Although I do agree with Wilde... "All art is quite useless."
Be a good tattoo, I think.