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This came down the pike this week and stuck me like a truck. (Toy truck.)
The flu comes and goes with the humidity. (Covid19 is a flu.) And the humidity is the opposite of what I would figure. High humidity tends to absorb the water droplets we exhale, thus neutralizing them. Low humidity lets them live longer. In winter, we have LOW humidity. Can you believe it? Cold air sucks the water out of the air.
Summer has higher humidity. You know those humid days of summer?
So, following this train of thought, the prudent thing to do regarding this Covid19 virus is equip your house with a humidifier.
I guess the cheapest would be to boil water on the stove, but don’t burn up your pots. It might be more economical to purchase an actual humidifier that shuts off when the water evaporates away, gives a goodly amount of humidity, 40-60%, is attractive in the house, is quiet, and easy to fill. There is a bonus, it will make your plants happy. I shopped online yesterday to find humidifiers. I would like to find one to sell, but I don’t think I can beat Amazon’s prices. To save you time here’s a couple I thought fit the bill.
That was yesterday after I completed formatting my paperback book.
Monday began like this:
First things first, replace the bouquet on my desk.
Second, go through some old notes. Last night had been the dark night of the soul.
What do you do when you awaken in the middle of the night, thinking that what you want isn’t working?
A 16-page manual on how to format the interior of my paperback book sat before me. I hate reading manuals. Nobody wants to buy my book any way I ruminated.
I wasn’t a pleasant person to be with that morning.
Abraham says that each morning brings with it the possibility of a fresh start. I didn’t feel fresh. I wanted to bite nails.
I read a note I had written long ago:
“It’s the expectations that you have that disappoint you.”
“Keep your head down and process—you’ll never regret doing what you love.”—
I opened an email from a reader and read: “The price one pays for pursuing a profession, or calling, is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side.” by James Arthur Baldwin.
Thank you, kind person. Are things lining up or what?
Thank you, oh great powers that be. No wonder I was procrastinating, I didn’t like the beginning of my story. “Well, change it, stupid. If Celine Dion can sing her song 30 times in a row before it’s a wrap, you can change your book. It isn’t carved in stone, you know.”(Apologies to people who have already read it.)
After running Where the Birds of Eden Sing through Grammarly grammar checker chapter by chapter, I shored them up, tightened confusing passages, tried to find every errant “’:,. checked for typos—you know me, I can’t keep my fingers on the correct keys. Dishes stacked up. Hubby went to the store.
In the middle of the week I saw the comet in the western sky. Hubby called me outside where we stumbled in the dark (not wanting any lights to obscure our vision) and pointed. I didn’t see anything, but then he gave me a night vision scope, and Wow. It was incredible. And I was talking about comets last week—just out of the blue. I was quite amazed at my reaction for looking at flying projectiles in the vicinity of earth is not my favorite pastime.
After that, back to face the dreaded book-formatting manual. I didn’t know that Word had such formatting capabilities like making a Table of Contents, adding blank pages, so each chapter begins on the right side of the page, getting the page numbers correct after they begin on #1 at the beginning of each section. (Amazon wanted sections.) And then solving the problem when they suddenly disappear. What?!
Problems solved–I think. I still have a mortal fear that there will be a blank page appearing out of place somewhere in the book. I hit, “Save as a PDF,” and told my husband to never hire me to send up a rocket. I’m not built for it.
He said, “Courage.”
It’s a wrap.
If you don’t read Where the Birds of Eden Sing,
You’ll never know Star, the little HIV baby. You’ll never see how two Sara’s twenty years apart find love in the wilds of Africa. You’ll never know how Patrice, a child of Africa, popped on the scene and ran with the story. And you’ll never know why in the world someone would offer two million dollars for a painting.
That would be a shame.
So, how was your week?
Love your brothers and sisters, we’re all in this together,