Our computers and hand helds went ahead and turned the clocks back on their own last night. If only we could do that at will whenever we wanted to add another hour to our day or have a do-over for an hour squandered. Or to relive a spectacular hour. Nope, we only get to relive the hour that the clock managers want us to relive, which always happens to be midnight on a Saturday. So we get to relive the crap on Saturday Night Live...?
I am constantly relieved that my novel-in-a-month is unfettered by any requirement of quality. I am writing words that are loosely connected by time and action, but that might be it. And I find that I'm writing almost autobiographically, which is interesting. I've always been comfortable with journaling, so maybe it makes sense that my attempts at fiction would initially read like an adolescent journal. Introspective, narcissistic, trite. Oh well, quantity marches on.
It's another beautiful day in Boulder County. We (Mark and I and our houseguests, nephew Pete and his girlfriend Anna Kate) are planning to hike to a place where we can see the snow-capped mountains of the Continental Divide then descend to a brewery for the Broncos/Patriots game. I took the afternoon off from work just for the occasion.
The leaves are mostly off the trees now, but with the brilliant radiant sun beating down you'd never know it was early November. The sunshine is by far one of the best things about Boulder.
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