November 6, 2010

Hello Again!

November 6, 2010

It’s been 3 ½ weeks since my last post. Why did I let so much time go by without putting a single word down on paper?

No crises of conscience, no reconsidering my life choices, no births or deaths. Just a weeklong trip to visit a great good friend, followed by various and sundry routine medical appointments AND the arrival of a new laptop that meant I had to overhaul my home network. Afterwards, I did battle with a stubborn printer, resulting in a seventy-five minute online chat with a technical support person, probably somewhere in India, judging by his or her name (and the darned thing still isn’t 100% right).

In other words, my life got in the way of my writing.

So to all outward appearances, I would be, say, sitting in the vet’s office, waiting patiently with my elderly cat for her annual blood draw. But inside my head, I would be out the door so that I could get back to writing.

Even though I’m not writing right now—a book, at least.

Unfortunately, over the last month, all I did was think about writing and chastise myself for not doing a lick of work. Why? Because if I so much as glanced in the direction of my computer, something got in my way.

Here are a few cases in point:

When I returned from the vet that day, my husband informed me that he wasn’t receiving all of his email over our new network and that I needed to fix whatever was wrong immediately. Please! So I did. It took me the rest of the afternoon.

A couple of days later, my arm swelled up after I went to the doctor for a simple flu shot and let her talk me into a pneumonia vaccine, as well. My poor left triceps resembled a big red balloon. Later on, the bulge shrank to an ugly and painful bruise that looked like I had been punched by a heavy-weight boxer. Oh, and I forgot to mention that I had some chills and fever, too.

Then for two Fridays in a row, my grandson decided he wasn’t feeling well enough to go to school and would rather come over to my house to play. After quite a bit of stonewalling on his part, behavior characteristic of seven-year-old boys, I’m told, we finally figured out what his teacher and classmates were doing that he didn’t like. He hasn’t missed a day since.

And the list goes on.

Finally, though, the interruptions have slowed to a crawl. The chickens that have been pecking me to death over the last few weeks are happily fed and quiet in their coops, and I’m sitting here, getting back to what I do best.

It’s hard to start over again. I’m a bit out of sorts. The ideas don’t flow. The phrases come in fits and starts. I have to resist the urge to sharpen all my pencils or get a cookie or feed the cats.

But I’m back at it, for better or worse, rusty or no. And, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t be happier!

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