Six Months Later

I had elaborate plans to actually start writing today. It seemed fitting. It’s a Monday. There are six months left of the year. And I told myself that once I had settled here I would write. No more homeschooling, after all.

Not this writing, I mean. This slightly more fun and kind of play-play writing, considering it serves little purpose other than to vent. To giggle a bit. Perhaps to save a memory or two. No. It was supposed to be book writing. And here we are and it’s after lunch time and I haven’t done the writing. The writing that was supposed to be done before 10. I’m starving but my husband has promised to whip up a spaghetti (thank God for husbands who cook) so at least I will be fed but I’m still just sitting here and wondering how the hell half the year has gone by and I still haven’t written a thing towards that stupid “dream” of getting a second and third and forth and fiftieth book written.

Hmmm… It’s possible that I need not only a permanently employed housekeeper, but a life keeper. Wouldn’t that be nice? A life keeper…

That sounds like a story waiting to happen.

If only Nadine was writing.

Perhaps she will one day. Not today after deciding to take on her first “market” sort of thing this weekend. No. Today she is too busy being half terrified and fully questioning the state of her sanity. Actually the sanity today is fine. We’ll check back in on that next week. That’s when it will falter.

There are also two kids visiting my child, which is fine. but the state of mother is to basically be in “pause mode” until someone needs you, is it not? It is. They never need me. That doesn’t change the ready-to-be-needed levels though. Or the inability to engage hyper-focus mode which is my superpower but doesn’t get used enough while playing the role of mother.

Or pet owner. Goodness. Mini children.

The dogs decided to play in the mud while it rained this morning. So ah, yes. That’s where my time went. Bathing the dogs. Making sure they remained warm while drying off in front of the heater. Repeated commands to “get in your bed!” lest the cold take over.

And then the bunnies and the cats who are dead set on torturing each other. Why oh why is it that my cats are so terrified of these lagomorphs anyway? And these bunnies are like children, tiptoeing up to creatures who are in every way their superiors, and basically booping them on the head before rushing away dramatically. They require constant supervision. Because otherwise the poor cats!

And whose fault is it for adopting so many new family members in such a short space of time? The silly bear trying to fill an unfillable hole, all the while creating the potential for more holes. To mend grief with impending grief. Goodness, writer girl. No wonder you are stuck.

These distractions are insurmountable, though they may seem so minuscule to an outsider I’m sure. They are death to the characters yelling at me from within to not forget their stories.

Yet I sit here, unwilling to change a thing. It all amounts to the most colourful inspiration. Perhaps one day I will figure out how to fit it all in?

This ramble here is about 600 words. I need to do seven or eight times more than that before I can get back into the book writing habit.

Tomorrow, maybe?

Tomorrow is not the first of the month that conveniently landed on a Monday though.

Today was perfect…

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