No writing was done this week because, Portia.
I know, I know, you’re sick of all these cat-related posts.
Well, tough.
Portia is a rescue from Seattle Area Feline Rescue (SAFR), a no-kill shelter down the street from me. My intention was to meet a little calico they had there, but when we arrived, there were so many great personalities among the cats available for adoption, we had to spend time with several. Portia—originally named “Porsche,” but there was no way that was going to stand; we quickly changed it to a properly Shakespearean homophone—was by far the one who clicked with us, and so she’s who we brought home.
And so, our 35-year streak of having only black or black/white cats remains intact.
She’s settling in. So are we.
Writing will recommence.
k
Hope. Damnable hope.
Work on the new novel is moving along pretty well, now, and I’ve achieved what (for me) is a rather brisk pace. I’m not threatening to break my personal best, set back when I was under contract to deliver the 
