November, a month I never welcome, despite the striking reds, oranges and browns in the trees and vineyards, despite the lush green grass, the wet caress of the air.
One writer I know of is crafting a poem a day this month for charity. Others are participating in National Novel Writing Month, aiming to have a 50,000-word first draft of a novel done by Nov. 30. I’ve participated in years past but don’t plan to do it this year.
In my inbox is a friend’s 41-page marketing plan for a book she may or may not get published someday. She thinks there may be elements in her plan I can use, and I expect she’s right.
A light fog lingers in the air. It’ll likely be all burned off by 11 a.m., just like a little twinge of melancholy I always feel when November begins is, without fail, gone by Thanksgiving year after year. I don’t know why it comes and goes this way, but I accept it now as just another part of life.