Twenty Pounds of Mud

At left, the contents of my fly fishing bag.

Twenty pounds of mud, indeed. I forgot the jerky was in there from November.  Louis the foxhound did not. Helpful hound.

I don't think I need to be carrying three pairs of hemostats. I'm not taking out an appendix. Well, not yet I haven't.

SO, new trout bag: The Essex Side Bag from Finn Utility. Handmade in Vermont. Brass, leather, heavy canvas.

It'll last a good thirty years. It'll last fifty with a little care. This is the gold standard in wading bags. Hardy and Chapman have nothing on my Yankee friends.

After a little selective editing, all I needed fit nicely in the new bag.

I'm revising a story now. I had to do some major structural work last night because it wasn't optimal. The story worked; but, it could work better. Out with the word saw.

Tomorrow means I start "the careful draft" according to the reader's map I've laid out. Much of what I need is in the "silver" draft I have now. Some language needs some attention for content and the new story continuity.

I  find a story is about X when I start but it is about Y when I finish. I didn't know it was about Y until my characters showed me my error.

Then, I play catch-up. That's where I am now.

I had twenty pounds of story mud. I have a ten pound submission limit. Thus, we're doing some work.

I hope you are doing some work, too.

If you call it a "fishing purse" I'll have to correct you. A "fishing purse" is the item you buy your wife as you disappear on a brush plane each summer. As one must spend as much on one's wife's gift as you spend on the fly-in fishing trip, they're damn nice bags.

I either need a cheaper fishing trip or professional sponsorship.

Maybe Finn needs a spokesmodel.