Yesterday morning I woke to a general bleakness. My first thoughts of the day were along the lines of: It’s dark. It’s raining. It’s November. And I don’t want to go to work today.

I didn’t want to get dressed, didn’t want to leave the house, didn’t want to talk to anybody or do anything or be anywhere.

Bleak.

I took the usual bleak morning steps: fire in the woodstove, good cup of coffee, check in with my twitter support network. Spent some time with my journal. And came to the general realization that what I am suffering from is a serious dearth of Magic.

Scoff if you will, but Magic is alive and real and as necessary for my well being as vitamins and coffee. And when I’m feeling magically deprived, it’s usually not so much that there isn’t any magic around, but rather that I’ve become incapable of perceiving it.

So, yesterday morning I began a conscious quest to find the missing magic. There were glimpses of it all throughout the day – small things, easily missed. Hints of magic, not the real deal, but reminders that it’s all around me whether I can see it or not.

My Magic Quest sightings included:

• rain turning to a skiff of snow as I drove into work

• a rare, slow day at the office – no crises, no insolvable knots, no human heartbreak

• unexpected gifts of time

• bubbles of irrational happiness

And there was magic just the other day, wandering through an antique store and playing with a camera and mirrors. I love mirrors. They alter perception, make the magical realm seem imminently possible and right behind you, like if you turn around fast enough some fairyland denizen will actually be standing there. Small wonder that mirrors serve as a magic conduits in so many stories.

I love the reflections in the glass here, and the way the bluejay figurine almost looks real, peering out at me.

And here – colors and textures and me in a different place entirely. Or so it seems.

Today  I plan to again walk through the day with my eyes open. Join me?

The Viking Visits Grand Canyon

Seems like I’m blogging everywhere but here these days. Today, I’m over at the Word Whore Blog where I’m supposed to be talking about “Titles of Significant Others” but meander off into the magic of a relationship that finds its own shape without titles.

If you’ve chosen (or been compelled) to refrain from the Nanowrimo fun this year, I have a few suggestions for hooking onto the wonderful November energy. You’ll have to click a link though, because it’s over at the #amwriting blog.

May your muses be kind, and your fingers swift on the keys.

Last night I finished my current novel in progress. Time for celebration!! Let there be fireworks and champagne and a huge kick ass party!!!

Or not. Finishing a novel tends to be a quiet event. Chances are there isn’t anybody around to notice the momentous occasion. Even most of my Twitter friends were already sleeping or busy writing novels of their own when I entered the final edit last night and closed the Word document.

In a way, finishing a novel feels like a death. The one thing that has been sucking up all of your attention for months or even years is quiescent and still. For years the book has been a constant and demanding companion, waking and sleeping. Always, writing or not writing, at least part of your brain is working on the novel. What about this character or that plot point? Is that really a good word choice? Will anybody get that reference? When will I be able to schedule in writing time?

And then, nothing. All of the possibilities have been selected or eliminated. The book is done growing and changing. It is what it is.

The only cure I know for the way I feel after finishing a book is starting another one. I think I’ll wait a day or two. But there is a certain geriatric vampire impatiently awaiting my attention.