The tough have a beer. Really. What were you expecting?
I’ve been a single momma for the past four days, and I’m tired. This is a giant understatement. I have a new level of admiration–awe–for women and men who do this day in and day out. I would complain more, but that just makes me look like a whiny bitch. Which I am, sometimes.
But I digress. I came here again tonight mainly to update the masses (you’re out there, right?) on how things are going on the writing front. It’s been almost two months since my last post and I’m feeling loquacious. Or maybe it’s the two beers.
Either way, I’m here. I’m writing. And the kids are asleep. Amen. Since my last post, spring fell flat on its face and melted into a wet, mushy sodden series of weeks that pretty much nearly sent me over the edge. More precipitation? In non-frozen form though. Super. Instead of snow banks we have flooded flagstone cellars. Instead of sun we have continuous grey.
Until a few weeks ago. Finally we had something to look forward to. Tulips and other bulbs pushing through the wet earth. Lawns transitioning from brown tangled mats to green-ish. For me though, the last few months have been fertile. I had my first magazine query accepted. I did some interviews for that story. I started stringing for a local community newspaper. I’ve written three stories so far — two have been published. The subject of one of those stories paid me such a nice compliment, I teared up.
Come Easter, it certainly seemed like the rebirth of something. What exactlty, I can’t say.
Life also seemed to rush forward at phenomenal speed around this time. A few birthdays, Mother’s Day. My five year “work anniversary” at my day job. Meetings, deadlines, drop-offs, pick-ups. I forgot to brush my teeth often. And I stopped writing things that weren’t strictly assigned.
I started to miss my musings into the ether. I started to wonder again about those characters I abandoned after my online writing class.
But the most worrisome sign that something needs to give? I started carrying on invented conversations, imagining scenes, and daydreaming with increasing frequency. On the bus. During yoga (WTH?). Trying to drift off to sleep at night. While writing some sort of business “news” for my employer’s website.
So now the lull sets in. The adrenaline of “GETTING MY FIRST CLIPS!” is subsiding and I need another fix. But any old fix just won’t do. I need the right kind. I never saw myself as the person writing the stories I read.
But when the going gets tough, I guess the tough write fiction.