This has been one of those odd weeks, where everything feels just a little bit off, but I can't really put my finger on the problem, past saying "Doesn't everything feel just a little bit off?" I've decided to blame it on an adrenaline hangover from the Stanley Cup run.

Paid work stopped for my husband for the moment, so he dove into his newest project, the Garage Mahal, with wild abandon. All our stuff is strewn about the driveway as he puts the finishing touches to the drywall and the new door and the automatic garage door opener etc, and our yard looks like a semi-permanent garage sale. Most of this stuff will probably go, because as he builds, we've been purging. It's funny what made it into the garage in the first place. In some ways it became the staging area for what we needed to get rid of, but didn't have the heart to let go. In amongst the wire and tools and sailing equipment, we found two bags of stuffed toys, the last hold over from our daughter. She's 22 and moved out ages ago, but the two bags are still sitting there, and I don't quite know what to do with them. Every time I open the bags, with the intent of separating good from too terrible to be believed so I can give them away, I end up remembering her growing up, and her infectious laugh, and Christmases, and how much fun so much of it was, and then I close the bags and put them back, thinking I'll get rid of them tomorrow. The garage is almost finished, though. I have to do it soon.

I had lunch with a dear friend of mine (who has been editing my work) a few days ago. I was whining and complaining about having not just one, but two novels in pieces around me, and feeling overwhelmed with all the work I had ahead of me, and how I just wanted to stop for a while, maybe take a holiday or something, before I got back to trying to save them. She stopped me in mid whine. "What are you doing to them?" I started to explain, melodramatically, what I was trying to do. She shook her head. "Manhood Road needed spell checking and tiny edits. Seeing the Light is done. What are you doing?" I tried, waving my lacy handkerchief like the true drama queen that I can be, to explain that they weren't ready yet, not even close to ready, that all words falling from my computer were bad ones, and that maybe this wasn't the right road for me to be on. Not right now. I think it was probably good we were in a public place. Otherwise, she may have resorted to physical violence to get my attention. Trust me, that lacy handkerchief will never be the same again. She made me promise to lightly buff, and get them both out of this house. Both of them. I don't even get to put them in the garage for a while, first. Just box them up and ship them out. And start on the next one.

In amongst all the flailing and gibbering as I get my work ready to go out the door, I'm relieved. Editing is almost over. Sandra said so. Writing can start again. Thank goodness. Have I mentioned how much I hate editing? I think, maybe, I have. And now you can see why.

Am reading "The Poisonwood Bible" to get a feel for how someone who really knows the business writes a novel with 5 different 1st person points of view. Well, it started that way, but now I'm into the story and couldn't put it down if I wanted to. I want to try this type of thing, on a much smaller scale, for the next 3 Day Novel competition. I'll probably call it Death Watch, and it'll be a sizzler, even if I don't physically blow up a building. Explosions are my signature for the Three Day. End of the book, blow up a building. Really gets things moving, I must say. However, I can't quite figure out how to work one in, in this particular case. I do have a couple of months to think about it, though, so I'm not counting it out completely.