We’re going out of town later this week, heading for Terre Haute, Indiana, to visit my sister and celebrate my birthday. Ordinarily we’d be looking to make a similar drive the end of October, to Indianapolis, to enjoy Magna cum Murder, a terrific mystery convention. But we’re not going this year. I don’t have a new novel to push, my muse is semi-comatose, and I don’t think I could enjoy the ambience.
But I’ll take the same pleasure in the drive. By the end of October, autumn is well-advanced in Minnesota (there’s been snow twice up near the border already), and as we head south, autumn retreats until by Indianapolis, everything is still pretty green. Then on the drive home, it comes on again. It’s like time travel. Mid-October in Terre Haute, my sister tells me, it’s still summer. So the effect will be nearly the same this year.
There’s a mystery short story in there somewhere. Maybe a kidnap victim can notice her surroundings and it’s a clue.
Somewhere inside me, there’s still a writer. I wish I could coax her out.