Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!
Thanks to my grandmother, whose maiden name was Margret McCormick, I can proudly claim twenty-five percent Irish blood. My wife and daughters are in the kitchen whipping up a shepherd’s pie and a crock pot of corned beef and cabbage. A few neighbors are coming over we’ll have a couple of green beers and a maybe even a nip or two of Jameson’s Irish whisky before all is said and done. So here’s to the Emerald Island, Saint Patrick, Lucky Charms, four leaf clovers, Murphy’s Irish Stout, The Quiet Man, Monsignor Patrick J. Redehan, Bing Crosby, Maureen O’Hara, Van Morrison, Bill Murray, the Shamrock Pub, Danny Boy, the Boston Celtics and Darby O’Gill and the Little People.
The story is moving along well at 14,600 words. I pumped out 2,600 words yesterday and another 2,600 today. As it stands, I appear to have created a sort of time travel/ghost/schizophrenia story. If nothing else, it’s unique.