Or, as the organizers call it, "Publishing Day." I had fully intended to go back to Charlottesville today for a panel or two or three. I was interested in "Plotting Your Career," or maybe "Who's Reading and How," and later "Buzz Your Book: Publicity," which is maybe a little premature for me but, hey, it pays to think ahead. And I was hoping to find Sheryl and Kevin from Press53 and maybe grab some lunch between programs.
But it was snowing lightly when I got home from the Festival last night (and Bhikku was freaked, not because he'd been left alone so long, but because he'd eaten his dinner at 1pm and thought he was starving to death), and still/again this morning. All morning. It looked like the roads were okay around my house, but the trip to Charlottesville is over the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I wasn't in the mood to drive on icy roads, so I decided, instead, to stay home and work on my own book, which is coming along nicely, thank you very much.
Spring Snow, apart from allusion to the fantastic Yukio Mishima novel, is a compelling phenomenon. Or it would be if anything was blooming yet at my house. Even the daffodils have yet to open in my little hollow, yet a few miles away they're already at their peak, and the cherry blossoms are as gaudy as they're going to get, and the Bradford pears are already fading. Give my yard another week or two. The redbuds will burst open, followed by the dogwoods. Presumably, by then, the snow will be over.