Well, the monsoon did not arrive on time, but waited twenty-four hours. Then it arrived with a wallop. Rivers of rain came down. I watched my down-the-hill neighbor filling sandbags to keep the run-off out of his garage. Fortunately, by the time I got out to offer assistance, he'd pretty much finished. He probably would have declined my help anyway since he's half my age.

Birmingham Sunday was shipped out to my editor yesterday. I need to remember to ask her not to abbreviate it inhouse as BS, but rather B'ham. I really should have thought about this possibility when working on a title. We Are One was known inhouse as WAO; I just don't think I could bear a work of mine being called BS. Now I will turn my attention to securing permissions and banging out a few more scenes in my mystery.

Somebody asked me the other day how I celebrate when I've finished a book. I'm not sure I ever have, although sometimes I will take a week off from writing and play. More often, I just move on to the next project. I don't uncork a bottle of champagne, board the next flight to an exotic locale, shout it from the balcony, or have breakfast at Tiffany and Company. That's the stuff of movies. Writers--working writers--generally...ah...well...WORK.