I worked details most of today--midnight to 6am, then noon to 6pm guarding Walmart. Easy to guard since they were closed, and all I had to do was break the bad news to all the poor slobs who hadn't finished their Christmas shopping in time.

The first six-hour block was pretty easy since by about 3am people stopped driving up with desperate looks on their faces. The guy driving the street-sweeper was careening around the parking lot in his usual semi-random manner, scooping up the various detritus. But my usual bah-humbug outlook toward christmas was mellowed to some degree when he drove close by my car once and slowed, then held up a hand-written sign, "Merry xmas ma am." He grinned a smile that was missing all of his upper front teeth, waved and careened off to sweep up more garbage. I grinned back, cheered by the simple sign. About thirty minutes later he pulled up beside my car again, cut the sweeper engine off so the noise wouldn't deafen us both, then handed me a fresh cup of coffee that he had obviously gone and bought for me from the gas station down the street. It was black and hot and fresh, and even though I take mine with lots of cream and sweetener, it was such a nice thought that my normally dour christmas outlook was restored to something much more... christmasy. I had a bag of oatmeal and raisin cookies that I'd made earlier in the day, and so I bundled up as many of those as I could fit onto a paper towel and then waved him down the next time he made a pass through the lot.

Funny how sometimes it's just the simplest things...

And in fact I enjoyed the 12 hours of time to myself. I did a great deal of reading, listened to a lot of music--I was in a very classical mood so I listened to a great deal of Beethoven, some Vivaldi, and Copland's Appalachian Spring at least three times. I read nothing I had not read before--comfortable favorites with adventure, romance, and no great deep meanings.

I also read my book. I'd been scanning my bookshelves looking for a variety of books to fill 12 hours of mostly-solitude, and I saw the bound version of my first novel that Kent had bound up for me. It had easily been over two years since I'd read over the thing, so I chucked that one into my bag of books as well.

It took me nearly the whole first six-hour shift to get through the book--partially because it is pretty darn long (160K words) and also because I was concentrating on reading every word. And I found that a two-year break is plenty of time to allow one to read one's own work with fresh eyes. I knew the story--of course--but I'd forgotten some of my turns of phrase and I found myself enjoying the way I'd handled some scenes, and making notes on how others could be polished. But all in all I was very pleased with how the book read. It's high time I sent the damn thing out again. I admit I was a bit disgruntled by my experience with Baen which is why, I suppose, I haven't done anything with it. (Brief recap for newer readers: I pitched the novel to a senior editor at Baen, she liked the idea and had me send her a copy. She then wrote and told me that she had liked it and was passing it on to Jim Baen for final approval. A year went by. I wrote her, and she called me to tell me it was still being considered. Another year went by--and I'll admit that I had tabled any thoughts of the book due to my divorce and restructuring of my life. She wrote me--including a gift--with an apology stating that they had somehow lost the manuscript and could I please send another? Another year went by. I wrote again, stating that I needed a answer--any answer. I finally received a form rejection that did not have my name, the name of the book or a signature on it anywhere. Normally a form rejection doesn't faze me, but after the close consideration the book had received so far I have a sneaking suspicion that it had gotten lost again, and they simply rejected it to save them the trouble of locating it again or asking for another copy. Who knows.)

The other problem I encountered was when I came to the end of the book and found that I really wanted to read the next book...

Crap... I guess this means I need to write the next book.