The new site is up and running, mostly without any major problems — thanks mostly to WordPress rather than my own skills. And I’m still picking off the 1,600+ blog entries from the past 8 years, getting those manually moved over from Blogger to the new format. If you’re really wondering what I was blogging about in 2004, you’re just going to have to be patient to find out.

The new project — working title: Pantheon — is still coming along slowly, due more to some genuinely frustrating time and schedule constraints than any creative issues. The lack of time to write is becoming an increasing annoyance — and not just for this project. It’s been this way for a long time. I cannot help but feel envious of the writers who manage to make the shift to full-time. One day…

For almost twenty years I’ve tracked my time during the day in fifteen minute increments which standard when you work at any kind of advertising or marketing agency. It’s also an interesting place to keep your head on a regular basis. Once that mindset becomes routine, it’s difficult to turn it off. During the day, that time is time spent (usually) in support of a client. It is productive time and (usually) profitable time. Meaning, we will invoice someone for it. Which is why it is tracked so closely.

Off-hours, however, the mechanism remains the same but I’ve found the mental tracking inverts. Instead of tracking productive time, I unconsciously note unproductive time. Even your normal (e.g. real life) activities are measured in those terms: Making the kids’ lunches, emptying the dishwasher, a phone call from a friend, watching television, writing this blog post . . . those fifteen minutes add up to a lot of time.

Which is rough when you live in a world where time not spent writing is time not writing. It’s lost and whatever might have been written is lost as well.

Early on in DC Comics Kingdom Come by Mark Waid and Alex Ross, we get a glimpse inside the life of The Flash — who has become so fast that he lives between the ticks of the clock. This has, in essence, removed him from reality. When I first read that, I couldn’t help but think “Yeah, I get that…” Or perhaps it’s just the Mercury helmet I relate to.

Possibly I’m just another whiny writer blogging about not having enough time — at least, some of the time.

Speaking of unproductive time, had a very nice weekend. Got a little bit of work done on Pantheon and the new podcast, as well as a considerable amount of noodling on the October Surprise (which has now grown into two separate and rather different surprises, so I’m trying to decide which one I want to do more).

Spent Saturday afternoon wandering through one of an antique mall in one of the dilapidated warehouses near my house. Approximately ninety-eight percent of the merchandise was there during my last visit six months ago, most of it junk. I did spend some time marveling over a remarkably well preserved Steiff Hitler. Toys and dolls of political figures are nothing new, apparently, but it was still odd to think of a child in their crib cuddling with little Adolph.

“There’s a story in that somewhere,” I thought to myself.

“Yes,” I replied. “And Rod Serling wrote it like fifty years ago.”

I did manage to turn up a couple of vintage fountain pens. They sounded like maracas when shaken, a sure sign that the ink and reservoir sacs within had disintegrated. But they were beautiful and quite inexpensive (likely due to their frozen levels and the crumbled mess inside), so I decided it was time I learned how to restore vintage pens.

Back home, Keeley took a nap and I spent a happy hour or so gently disassembling the pens — a Parker and a Welch — and cleaning out the petrified muck from inside the barrels. A few quick searches online, and I had an order in for replacement sacs and some shellac. Updates on my progress to (hopefully) follow soon.

Sunday we spent the afternoon with my wife’s grandparents out at Aurohn Lake — rapidly becoming my favorite place on the planet. Typically, I don’t get nostalgic for places but there’s something very special about this spot. Maybe it’s the determination of the beavers, doggedly blocking the spillway on the dam despite our efforts to keep it clear every few weeks. Keeley did the honors this time around, while I watched and took pictures.

Or maybe it’s the hill, just beyond Six Bar Gate at the edge of the forest. At the summit, there are spots where the waist-high grass has been matted down in gentle depressions by sleeping deer, like snow angels. And to one side there’s a large, wide hole that leads (I’m sure) deep into the hill where a badger in a waistcoat sits by a fire, checking his pocketwatch and ignoring the little showers of soil that fall into his teacup from my pacing overhead.

A card table and a folding chair, a few fresh pens and my notebook . . . sounds like the perfect place to spend an afternoon, writing and looking out at the view.

Then again, it’s probably just the milkweed pods — caught in the midst of their annual, slow motion explosion. We each did our part to ensure that they continue their dominion over the eastern edge of the lake.

Regardless, it’s a wonderful place and it was a good day. I spent much of it talking about writing with Keeley’s grandfather and digging through his old radio scripts from the forties.

Rounding the corner into Halloween, I though it might be appropriate to share this little papercraft Poe. I’m considering the logistics of making hundreds of them and setting up an invasion on the lawn and porch for trick-or-treaters. Perhaps not.

After that, it’ll be time to vote. Here’s my official endorsement.

Winter will be upon us then. Much as I am looking forward to its return, this story has made me very sad. Here’s hoping Phoenix lives up to its name.