Seattle.
It is late October, early November, when Dawn puts on her grey scarf and each day arrives in soft focus, born in muffled softness.
The edge of the world is only a stone’s throw away. Green needles and rusted leaves alike gleam in the moisture-laden air.
Above, southbound geese call with muted trumpets, navigating the blanketed skies, seeking grey waters beneath grey fogbanks.
All is cotton and wool, steely but soft, quiet and chilled, both bright and dim.
I walk dew-slick streets, and feel that here, surrounded by these layers of mist, magic is possible.
k
It’s been an interesting week, writing-wise, and while no, it wasn’t “interesting” in the sense of “Oh God Oh God We’re all going to die!” it was interesting in the sense used by the old Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times.
A large part of my “journey” from IT professional to editor is bolstering my own confidence level. While I’ve edited, copy edited, and proofread over a dozen novel-length books and scores of shorter works — both for myself and for others — I haven’t done this work as an editing professional. That, when put alongside the generally unstructured education I received in grammar (Hey, it was the ’60s; we didn’t burden ourselves with rules), means that while I have an innate command of the English language, I sometimes struggle to put into words exactly why an error is, in fact, an error.
In my 
Is writing keeping me from writing?
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 