The faster you pedal, the quicker you get there.

Thanksgiving was great, except little Reedy was sickish and not in a smiling mood. Both India and Buffy looked like America's-Next-Top-Model finalists, and Jason his usual unique self. Jed was lookin' handsome in his Banana Republic shirt. If these children only knew how lovely and smart and young they are, they'd run out and set the world on fire. Well, for all I know, they could be doing that at this moment.

Mable brought a luscious corn pudding, and later emailed me her recipe. Jed and I took some Wal-Mart potato salad, because I forgot to make some, and it was almost as good as home-made. B&J brought two pies to die for. If I had stayed longer, I would have et more.

"Et" is a good Old English word; one of those bug-eating aliens said it on a Star Trek NG episode.

Of course, over the weekend I got behind on my word count. At one point I thought, the story's over anyway, so why bother, just go back and pad it some. But then I started writing again, and--it just unfolds as I write. So now I'm caught up, 40,000 and counting.

Where has November gone? I've got it down on the computer, I guess. Writing every day is as bad as an outside job for making time speed up and slip away. Isaac Asimov said, "What would I do if told I had only six months to live? I'd type faster." Bud, that would make it seem like only six days.