. . . and not very successfully for it’s still flying by. Just walked the hounds, trying to get my energy up. I feel like I ran a marathon, muscles sore, achy. My bitch Brinda is eating dirt as I drain the hot tub, neighbourhood junkos and towhees using the run-off as a birdbath. Flighty, ring-necked pigeons fight over the sunflower seeds, their cries reminiscent of elephant calls. There was a haze over the Lower Mainland and the Fraser Valley from the forest fire smoke drifting down from the Interior, but it’s cleared up. We didn’t notice it much over here, another perk of island life.

I’m working it, working on the novel. Post Sage-Hill, feeling like I’ve been back a long time but actually still struggling to re-enter. Such a rarefied atmosphere and I didn’t realize it there and then. Slowly, I am starting to get some serious work done, some editing accomplished. I’ve felt ambiguous about the title, The Town Slut’s Daughter. I realize it makes the book a hard sell and several people have asked if I’m married to it. I keep coming to the same conclusion, that yeah, I think I am. The title is very apt because it’s so in-your-face. It’s very punk rock. It also very neatly sums up the protagonist Fiona. She is who she is largely because she was the town slut’s daughter. Intriguing, isn’t it? What would that experience have done to you?

Recently I visited a dear friend who has been ill and I just heard another punk rock comrade-in-arms, Derf Scratch of FEAR has bitten the dust. Christ, am I next? Knock on wood. I better get this book out. Looking over my shoulder a lot these days, and keep thinking carpe fucken diem. These cold, hard facts of life just keep coming at us.

I spent a lovely evening with friends, a Girls Night In with fellow scribes Miranda Pearson, Elizabeth Bachinsky and Jenn Farrell who instructed me in the fine art of book signing. Duh. I didn’t know you were supposed to cross out your author name in print, on the bookplate. Why hasn’t anyone told me this before? Nobody tells me anything. I stumble across things or learn everything the hard way.

Taking Junior to Whistler for golfing this weekend. He’s being a real slacker lately but at age 15, I figure that’s his job. We did have an interesting discussion last night though. He asked me what was more important, story or storytelling. I didn’t like having to choose but I said, if I had to, then story would be my choice, the writing fundamental to any production. It was a lovely give-and-take. And I’ll be happy when he gets his driver’s license and can chauffer me around for a change.