For some years, I’ve understood why I can’t write when certain kinds of things were going on in my life. Emotionally, they were loud, and for me, writing is listening to the quiet spaces where the words come from. It’s why I had so much trouble getting word count in my old career. I spent too much time fighting being in the wrong place.
Today was a truly horrible day. Easily in the top ten bad days of my life. I didn’t really get what today was about until this morning, when I realized I’d just been missing cues. I’m on an errand with my mother, carving a week and a half out because “I’m not working,” but inherently understanding I was needed as much for emotional support as anything else.
And, well, in a small family, I’m it. So here I am in Canada.
It’s just really, really, really hard to write today because all that pain is louder than what I want to write about. What the current book I’m working on is about.
I also realize there’s another shoe that could drop out of the whole thing, and I hope I’m wrong about that. Because that? Would be even more horrible. But writer plot brain comes up with these what-if scenarios without prompting. It is well trained.
So, I actually got a novel idea out of the whole day.
I just can’t write it yet. Maybe not for another year. Ish.
Sorry about the cryptic. The last three days are like an impressionist painting. Today, the paint tubes exploded.
The good thing, if you can call it that, is that now some of the hard stuff is known. Let’s hope it’s most/all of the hard stuff.
The Unrelated Upbeat Ending
So here’s something entirely unlike my day. Because you and I deserve something better, right?