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New Hampshire is so blue. Blue skies the color of shiny blue cars it's a gas and it's hard to beleive I've been living in Syracuse grey unthinking of the colors of New Hampshire skies. Blue.

The smell of pine is everywhere.

We drove a day early, stopped in the Berskhires, most beautiful part of Massachussettes from what I can tell, all low rolling mountains, green and manicured towns. Harvey in the car made a fuss at first, doing that thing where he keeps his mouth clown open, wide open like a LOL cat, but not funny. The stress-mess face, an meowing with his mouth up like that, sounds just echoing from a hole. He calmed down though, that is until the storm. In the Berkshires at the restaurant, we dined on the porch, may have well have been the deck of a ship the rain coming down so hard. The wind made it roll in sheets and everyone moving their tables to the wall. The food was good though, it was just right, though G couldn't much enjoy it for the overprotective parent in him, worrying about Harvey the entire time. He dashed back through the rain to the parked car, down an street and down another, brought it back to the restaurant, his shirt off, the cars insides all wet. It stopped raining as he pulled up, or at least it slowed, but that's Murphy.

These days, I wish summer lasts forever.

Friday to Sunday, I was making money, down to next to nothing, it being summer, I being a poor grad student, but that's how it goes. I signed on as a brand ambassador for Bailey's new coffee creamers (non-alcoholic, unfort.) I worked at the Syracuse Nationals, over at the fairground, handing out samples and samples and samples to big car lovers, obese car lovers, surrounded by hundereds of beautiful old cars. These cars had style. The cars did, but can't say that about their owners. Let me tell you, antique car owners, old car owners are ugly. They are fat and bald and shirtless and sunburned and confident. They like to hit on free sample women, but that's just law.

"Want a sample?"
"Thanks, now can I have a hug?"
"No you may not."

"What's your name?"
"Becca."
"You should never tell an old man your real name."
"Maybe I didn't!"
"Good girl!"

Of course there were hair comment, goes without saying.

Anyways it was long hours, eleven a day, but good money and worth it. I have to say I enjoyed it. I enjoyed co-workers and going in to a job, doing the job, getting the job done, being out of my own mind (the good way) coming home and not having to worry about the job. Not like writing, which is constant battle, constant thinking about writing, worrying I am not writing enough when not writing, wondering is this good? when writing. Constant, constant.

Can't say I'm so jazzed about my writing right now. I'm not so confident, not so sure. I am writing, but each story feels different. I got so many interest, I like to mix it up, experiment, which can be good, but not when you got a voice in your head saying, "Becca find your voice!" Though I'm trying to quiet that voice. Voice will come. I'm young. If I don't get my first book together for ten years, I'll still be 34. I got to keep the faith a bit because these things take time. We can't all be wiz kids.

For now, it's New Hampshire blues, Vermont hunting cabins, family, reading Schutt and Hannah, hiking Mount Washington, writing, lakes, oh, and stocking my sister on facebook who is now a body builder (hardcore abs like whoa).

Not going to think about what comes next, not because I'm worried or scared, not because I don't want to be back with my friends, who I love more and more every day, not because anything really. I'm just going to be here while I'm here.