It is amazing how a bit of exercise can get me in the greatest mood. Though there was frost glittering on the grass, I pulled on my running gear and hit the roads this morning. Not very early this morning, I’ll admit, but it felt so good. The cold air burning my throat, my feet against the road. When I got down to the lake the mist still hadn’t burned off and the water was completely shrouded. Mist is a strange thing- you’re never within it but always looking at, approaching.
When we were driving back from Oregon, the mist clung to everything. Fog perhaps more than mist, and the fields seemed to belong more in Ireland than on the West Coast. Maybe it’s over romanticism to assume fog belongs in Ireland, or along moors covered in heather, with crumbling stone houses and sheep. I’ve never been somewhere like that, but I can imagine it. And then I feel the need to travel, to pack everything into a bag and just depart.
After my run I came home and sat down to my galleys, finally emailed by Finishing Line Press. I am too controlling, and the low quality pdf, for ease of emailing, is frustrating for me. I want to see the text as it will appear, the kerning issues sorted. I should trust them at their job, but I’m worried. I just want to craft something beautiful, and I think I need to find a way to make my own books. I’m thankful for the publishing opportunity but I can’t say the path has been smooth. I need too much control and I’m sure it’s as frustrating to work with me as it is for me to work with someone else.