Yesterday.

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melting rio grande

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Yesterday.

The river begins to open.

The release of the season starts.

Our frozen white highway over which we dragged nearly ninety logs bares elusive glimpses into the dark face of the Rio.

She laughs loudly now beneath our feet.

Her waters rise, ice thins, snow loses its strength. And we stand upon her remaining hard surface and what else can we do but hope she’ll hold?

We light the last of the slash piles upon the ice and listen.  Open water beneath the flame.  Floating fire.

Our tools are gathered, brought back to this side of the river.  If the warm weather continues with daytime temperatures climbing steady into the 40s and 50s every afternoon as they have been, the Rio will no longer be passable.  At least, not on her surface and I’m not big on swimming up here.

The timing is just right.  Our work across river is done.

We’ve harvested what we need to build our home and shop.  Should we need more for the barn, well, it’s safe to say there will be a new round of dead trees to harvest next year.

So now, the work on this side begins.

This is progress. We are pleased.  Still there is a little bit of sadness too, for we have loved our time together by the river, silent as she had been, knowing she is there with us in the long blue shadows and heavy hoar frost and steaming breath and laughter and bloody noses and fat lips which were our only injuries and many a hot dog roasted over our slash piles over what in summer would be the middle of the river and our intimate involvement with our dying trees.

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logs our side of the river

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An update on the birth of the book.

Thanks to so many for so much.  For your support, encouragement and kindness.

For those who have been waiting, it is my understanding that the Kindle version will be available on Amazon later today.

For all those that did write and leave reviews, I can not thank you enough.

To so many, I send such sincere thanks, love and gratitude.

So, yeah… everything is going great… you’d think I’d be just floating on cloud nine with the wonderful reception and reviews that the launch of the book brought us.

But I’m not.

They warn you to expect bad review. It’s going to happen. Not everyone is going to like what you write.  Some folks in particular will really not like it because they don’t like you, or they don’t like the fact that you did it and they did not or whatever goes through someone’s mind to justify saying mean things.

But what about no response at all?  Brings back memories of all those years sending out my manuscript.  I was lucky to get the rejection letter.

So yes, to hear from those who enjoy my writing… that means a lot.

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You know what they say is true:  If you dare to put yourself out there, you better be prepared to be burned.  Even if what burns is hearing nothing at all.

That’s the downside.  And it’s down.  It’s the pits, and it hurts.  Some folks manage to bounce it all off their hard shell.  Not me.  It gets me.  I’m softer than I care to admit.

Don’t be so sensitive, some say.  Be stronger. Care less.

If I followed that advice, my writing would not be what it is, would it?

And for better or worse, I would not be either.

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leaf in snow

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Those who have been through this before, the big first book deal, compare the process to giving birth, with a longer gestation, (in my case, would you believe, five years in the making?) and a little less physical pain.  That’s not too far off, having been through childbirth too.  Hey, Mom and Dad, you were there when I did that. Remember all my screaming and cussing?  Guess what – I did the same over these past five years and then some “birthing” my first book.  My one hope is that each subsequent book will be a little easier. Dang, I hope so.

Some even say if you knew back then how hard it would be, I bet you wouldn’t have done it.

But for those of us who do write, I think we can’t not write.  I am incomplete with out. Be it my gift or the part of my private self I can share.

It’s not just words. It’s a part of me.

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leaf in spring snow

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And at these times of introspection, we’re forced to ask ourselves this questions:

Who do I write for?

Family?

No.

My brothers both forgot. The lack of support (even acknowledgement) from most of my husband’s family on this accomplishment should not have surprised me but still did.

Thank goodness for good friends and new readers.  And a few wonderful surprises along the way, including some close family and distant friends.

Who do I write for?

Not for myself, for although that is the advice of some successful writers, it is not what I care to do.

I guess I write for you.   For the few still here with me reading whilst the rest have run off to other things, pressing issues, important matters, and something shiny and new.

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ute creek trail head

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