First we were moving east, then we were moving north. Each situation posed its own unique set of challenges.

After enduring the oppressive heat of the desert during the summer, we will be living in a cabin in the mountains during the winter. (Most people in the area reverse this order.)

Naturally, one of my biggest concerns is the impact this relocation will have on my golf game.

I mean, come on, I golfed on two consecutive weekends; will I lose my momentum or be grateful for the improved mobility in my neck and shoulders?

We were fortunate to find rental housing right away. We are even more fortunate that my husband works with so many wonderful colleagues and friends.

Any day now I will finish cleaning the new place and start writing fiction again. That is assuming I will be able to redirect my attention. Who knew that the knotholes in the pine ceiling could be so very mesmerizing?

I'm a sucker for those stories where a distressed woman travels to and often starts a new life in Provence.

Not to worry, I haven't booked my flight.
Yet.

Instead, I read Carrie Kabak's COVER THE BUTTER. Although now living in Kansas City, the author was born and raised in the United Kingdom and most of the novel is set there (there is a trip to Provence). Kabak skillfully builds tension in the life of her likable first person narrator, Kate, a people pleaser who struggles long and hard to find happiness and fulfillment in her life.

Now I'm reading Tom Perrota's JOE COLLEGE. The novel focuses on the life of a male college student, circa 1980. Perrota gives a strong sense of the era and the characters feel plausible. I doubt the first person narrator will be making any trips to France.

My husband thinks I'm packing for tomorrow's trip.

That would be the logical assumption.

What he doesn't realize, is that I am packing for the trip I'm taking the following week.

There's a trace of logic behind this activity, if only in my mind.

Some trips warrant more preparation, and, despite the fact that a segment of my wardrobe has been rolled, packed, and set aside for the next week, forming wrinkles that will defy ironing, at least I know that on some level, I am one step closer to being ready for that trip.

While others have been dealing with hurricanes, matters of life and death, my husband and I have been debating an unexpected series of career opportunities.

There wasn't much I could do to facilitate this process, so I pursued a reckless path of frenzied housekeeping and errands.

I couldn't begin packing until I knew where we were going, if we were going, but I could get the house ready.

I scrubbed the shower and cleaned the oven. I repotted plants with a sense of urgency that simply does not not exist for such a task. I washed everything including the dog.

When I prepare for a trip I follow a messy process where I set out items, debating my choices, then pack.

I am now packed for two trips, and I'm second guessing myself. Fortunately, I will have time for the all important repacking phase.

Books, books, books.

I'm more interested in writing than reading right now (and I really should be packing), but over the past few weeks I have read some entertaining, interesting and engaging books.

I'm still chuckling about a RAINMAN reference in the middle of Sophie Kinsella's THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS. While the novel is predictable, Kinsella consistently offers her readers a comfortable world to inhabit on a rainy day.

Once again, I find myself involved in a Barnes & Noble online discussion. Best-selling author Adriana Trigiani, sparkling with charm, humor and intelligence, makes this class well worth the time commitment, as do the participants.

Thomas Zigel's THE WHITE LEAGUE isn't my typical type of read. Set in New Orleans, it focuses on an inner circle of power and old money, the secrets suppressed, the lives ruined. The author spins a tight web of fiction around a historical basis, which of course adds to the plausibility. The character and plot development are solid (unfortunately the dorky cover doesn't do the book any favors). I think I read it in part for its sense of place.

Although MYSTIC RIVER was a powerful read, it didn't send me on an immediate search for more of Dennis Lehane's work, until I picked up SHUTTER ISLAND at the library thinking my husband might enjoy it. He did. And what's more, the content stayed with him for awhile, so I read it.

Wow. After a slow start, where I debated promptly returning it to the library, I was pulled further into the story. Amazing attention to detail, plot, characters. Days later I am still turning parts of it over in my mind, and the ending.

My cousin Mike can attest to my tendency to get a little goofy when I'm fatigued. (My husband would probably add, "you mean a little goofier?")

About fifteen years ago, I met Mike for a day hike at the Grand Canyon. It was hot, I felt like my body was trying to grow a third lung to help me breathe, and as we continued the uphill climb that would leave me with painful leg cramps mere hours later, I sang showtunes with my wonderful accomplice, Nell.

Mike, to his credit, did not abandon us on the trail, nor distance himself from us.

Welcome to one of my coping strategies, perhaps one of the better ones, right up there with walking: music.

Doesn't everyone have a soundtrack to his or her life?

Yesterday, after a solid but short drive from the 18th tee, I noticed a sudden movement in my peripheral vision. At that same moment, my husband reached out and yanked me into the cart.

A snake by my foot.

A tan snake with diamonds on its back.

A diamondback rattlesnake.

Narrow and small, perhaps two feet long.

I didn't hear any rattles, in fact the snake was intent on moving in the opposite direction, but the appearance caught me off guard and I compensated by offering a half-shriek as we sped away.

And what was going through my mind? Ethel Merman singing, "Something to Dance about," from CALL ME MADAM, only I was changing the words to "something to blog about."

TANGENT: This movie was a great vehicle for Merman, even if her larger than life voice was perhaps best suited to the stage. Donald O'Connor joins her in the lovely duet "You're Just in Love," and sings the charming "It's a Lovely Day Today" with Vera Allen.

My point being, and I do have one, songs from this musical (the 1953 film version) are often a welcome presence in my life.

A couple of years ago, my sister and I were returning from a particular arduous trip to Wisconsin (packing up the family home). Somewhere in Oklahoma we got caught in traffic. Road weary, emotionally and physically drained, how did we cope? We sang every song we could remember from OKLAHOMA, and it got us through.

And now, I must carry on with the day . . . "the rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain . . . 'I think she's got it!'"

Javelina showering in the shadows at dawn,

butterflies visiting,

it's been a busy week.

My husband pointed out the javelina during a morning walk. From the distance, it could have been a herd of dachshund, but I'll take his word for it. (Plus, you know, it makes more sense.)

A golf course meanders through the area where we walk. What one species considers a groomed territory for leisure sport, another clearly views as an accessible dinner table.

I have lived large chunks of my life in rural areas, but never before have I witnessed the food chain to this extent.

It's a wee bit unsettling.

Not only have I cultivated a healthy respect for wildlife (FEAR), I am hyper-aware of the fact that some creatures view our small dog as a light snack. He, however, seems to respond to everything in the same manner, a round of barking followed by a sniff and a lick. Hopefully his abundant hair serves as a deterrent to any seeking protein.

The butterflies are a much more welcome presence. I've seen two swallowtails, yellow and black, and numerous smaller, fluttering spots of color, following an erratic trail as though overwhelmed by the choices.

I gave the tiny ball a mighty whack and watched it roll in a diagonal line.

If I had been playing croquette, this might have been a good thing. As it was, I was attempting to golf.

I hacked my way along the fairway, hitting one grounder after another in a zig-zag pattern that could barely be considered progress.

Yesterday was my first time playing 18 holes.

It felt like it took 18 hours.

In the interest of time and sanity, I quickly surrendered my ego and teed off from the closest driving box thingy, thereby lowering my odds of losing balls in the dense brush.

Thanks to my husband's prior coaching at the driving range, I managed to make a few solid hits, launched them into the air like I knew what I was doing, but consistency was elusive and the specific terminology kept getting muddled in my mind.

Him: "Use the four wood."

Me: "Is that the one with the yellow shaft or the burgundy one?"

Silence.

At least the irons are visibly marked, but the woods? Maybe I just wasn't seeing it. (And aren't they metal now?)

As the afternoon wore on I experienced difficulty just getting the clubs in and out of the bag, and those little socks--is that really necessary when I'm using the club every ten minutes?

I'm glad we finally went golfing together. Now I have the glimmer of a clue about what it takes and just where I am lacking (here, there, and everywhere).

I am grateful he is a patient teacher and a good sport. I'm also grateful that, contrary to my prediction last night, I am able to lift my arms today, although they are very heavy.

Now for a few words about foundations.

Warning: this is vintage codespeak for lingerie.

Men often assume that women are somehow innately comfortable strolling through stores with shocking pink displays of bustiers and garter belts. Not true.

Typically such browsing results in annoyance: overwheming perfume, an abundance of items for those exotic creatures who occupy the size 0-2 zone, and fabrics likely to cause a rash.

But, like seeing the new car models, it is fascinating to discover the modifications. Until today, I had no idea what I was missing: improved comfort, style, aerodynamics! (Some of it is also downright frightening, for example, Spanx Higher Power High Waisted Power Panty. To borrow from Dave Barry, "I am not making this up.")

Although I'm a big fan of some discount places (so what if it's last year's merchandise as long as the quality is good), I often avoid the lingerie section altogether. The well endowed gal will find the brassiers displayed on the lowest, er, rack. I guess they are operating on the assumption that if your bosom is this LARGE you are so bent over from the burden you are probably walking on all fours anyway so you won't get a head rush when you shop for bras an inch from the floor.

I'm thrifty enough to want to pay only a third of what I'd have to pay elsewhere, maybe I can squat thrust my way to one heck of a deal. Or go back to the other store and make my purchase before some other lucky woman in my size gladly pays for more support in her life.

And so, gentle reader, once again, I say to you, I've finished tweaking the novel.

This morning I was having this nagging sense that I hadn't revealed enough about the resolution of the subplot. So I typed up the sequence of clues, sort of mapping out what I had in the outline. I think it works.

I hope it works.

And now it is packet time. Print outs, photocopies, a few cover letters that aim to entice without making a big sucking noise.

Or maybe not? Maybe I should just tuck this manuscript in the drawer and return to working on one of the others. My husband seems to think this is a good idea. I think it worked for Grisham, eventually. But what, no feedback?! I've been waiting two to three months for three people to get back to me about a few chapters, and let me tell you, this is not a comfortable position.

Patience--virtue or folly?

Next week I'm dropping by a local writers' group. I'm hoping to connect with a few other women's fiction novelists and maybe get feedback on a few pages. If that doesn't happen, at least I'll get to browse the stacks at Barnes & Noble.

I've begun reading Sophie Kinsella's THE UNDOMESTIC GODDESS (she of the SHOPOHOLIC series) and I'm wondering, gee, maybe the premise of my novels is too realistic, maybe readers want over the top?

A successful attorney makes a huge error, hops a train, knocks on a door for some aspirin and winds up becoming an incompetent housekeeper.

Okay, it may be a fun ride, but I guess I'm a little more interested in the adventures of Anna in ALUMNI AFFAIRS.

When I began my blog I gave a lot of thought to the name. Copacetic wasn't my first choice, but it had a personal connection that resonated well with me so I went for it.

What I didn't do, was research to see just how many Copacetic sites were already out there.

Maybe that was a good thing?

My initial goal was to provide a forum that would allow prospective literary agents a glimpse into my personality and writing style. I also wanted an efficient way to connect with my reading audience.

(An added bonus has been the therapeutic value of blogging/journaling.)

I didn't promote the site, probably another mistake as all of these others have certainly beat me to it.

And so, whacha-gonna-do? It's Copacetic, branded in my mind. To add even so much as a PJC just seems too awkward at this stage.

Perhaps, statistically, it was inevitable?

I got my arm caught in the book return at the library.

It wasn't my fault, other than the, you know, STUPIDITY factor.

When I arrived at the library I discovered several books wedged in the metal mechanism. I tried to use one of my books as a lever, knocking the stack loose while clutching my other books.

It worked, but as the jaws of the mechanism cleared they clamped down on my forearm, resulting in a lovely bruise.

Ah, the things I do for literature.