Yes, indeed, last week we ventured out to our favorite place: St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge. It was a beautiful day, and the moon again made an appearance. You might have to squint to see it in the below photo, but it’s there.
View of the moon (that dot almost dead-center of the photo) from one of our favorite rest stops.
While out and about, we met an interesting guy who was hiking the Florida Trail. I wrote about the experience for Crow’s Feet, a Medium publication. You can read it here: Compelled by Grief, Compelled by Love. I’m not enamored of the title and wish I had spent more time tweaking it, but it does sum up what drives this particular person to hike hundreds of miles.
What I like best about biking in the afternoon is the light. The sun casts a golden glow along the treetops as we ride back toward the car.
The road frequently traveled.
I’m still going on my morning walks although I missed two mornings in a row this week: one because I went instead to a yoga class, and the other because I needed to pick up a CD of my MRI images. It was one of those little tasks peculiar to the medical-industrial complex that annoy me until I can complete it. The orthopedist that I’m scheduled to see in March wants it. Goodness. I am not sure why these facilities cannot share images as well as reports, but apparently, it’s still 1999 around here.
This morning I really had to drag myself outdoors, but once out there, I kept walking. I saw two red-shouldered hawks initiate a mating dance, but then they saw me. I can only imagine what curses flew through their raptor brains. They flew off separately, but in the same direction. Probably to find a more private tree.
Next, I saw a bluebird. Not a rare sighting around here, but this lovely guy hung out on a power line, giving me a few minutes to admire his orange and white breast, and then the breathtaking brilliant blue of his back and wings as he turned and flew off. No photos of hawks or bluebirds because I was too busy living in the moment.
I had lunch with a former coworker the other day. I hadn’t seen her face to face in almost two years. We were in that enviable group of 60-pluses and sent home to work early in the pandemic. I retired last March and hadn’t seen her at all since then. She still works with my former employer, and she filled me in on all the drama. Fortunately, she’s a person with a lot of interests so we also talked about knitting, cooking, traveling, gardening, and bicycling, in no particular order. She let me know–a few times–that they (the office) have money and, if I’m casting about for something to do, they’d love to hire me back on contract.
It’s a lovely boost to the ego to still be wanted, to know that a special group of people would want to work with me again.
My response, after ignoring the first couple of offers: “I know I’m retired, but I feel like there are not enough hours in the day to do all that I want to do.” That’s it. I’m not casting about for something to do. I’m casting about but for how to do what I want to do and still get enough sleep. To that end, I signed up for a free Bullet Journal Workshop at my local independent bookstore. I’m not sure if I really want to take the workshop, or if I just want an excuse to purchase one of the bundles being offered for use at the workshop: a Leuchtturm Journal (style of your choice), 5 Pastel Highlighters, 7 Colored Pen Pack, Letterpress Stamp Set and Ink. What do you think? Do I need another journal? More pens and highlights?
The workshop will be next Saturday so I still have a whole week to continue practicing procrastination.
In the meantime, here’s Wendy bathing and playing with her blanket, the same blanket in which she was brought home about 8 1/2 years ago.
It’s been so long since our last hike at Big Basin Redwood State Park in California. But it isn’t that last hike that comes to mind; it’s the first one we made one winter. My not-yet-husband Greg and I had been living together for about 18 months when we decided to spend a couple of winter nights at Big Basin. At the time (the late 80s), it was an easy two-hour drive from our San Francisco apartment. We spent the previous night packing our sleeping bags and other gear, preparing food while The Talking Heads’ movie Stop Making Sense played out on our TV.
It was a cold winter. We practically had the park to ourselves; it was so cold no sane person would think about spending the night in a tent. We were sane, but also young. That first night we set up camp and walked around a bit, returning to eat and retire early.
I wanted to read. I don’t remember what novel I was reading at the time, but it was a paperback. I remember that because turning the pages while wearing thick wool gloves took as long as actually reading a page. I reclined in one of our Nifty chairs, a two-piece chair of slotted wood and dark blue cotton panels. It sat low to the ground. I wore a wool cap, wool sweater, long underwear, a hooded storm blue parka, thick wool socks, jeans, and hiking boots. I draped scarves around my face. Greg cocooned me in blue, green and red patterned wool blankets that he had bought in Ecuador.
We were slotted in among tall trees and deep green bushes, a thick border between us and our neighbors, except we didn’t have neighbors. Instead, we had uninvited guests, an unwelcoming party of five young raccoons who, at the first scent of our roasting hot dogs, decided to crash our little party of two. They came out of the bushes, advancing on us, their bandit eyes fearless and curious. It was cold. They were hungry.
“Shoo, shoo!” We waved them away, normally not afraid of raccoons, but we were outnumbered. Finally, Greg took a big stick, a fallen branch, and pounded the ground in front of them. They looked at him, shrugged, and went away reluctantly.
That night I bundled into my sleeping bag and lay listening to a barred owl hoot as it flew from one tree to the next. I was warm except for my nose which felt like an ice cube. The raccoons came back and tried to jimmy open the cabinet where we had stored our food. I smiled knowing they could never break in.
The next day we went on our hike, starting off with three layers of clothing. That morning I had had to chop through a layer of ice to get to the water in our bucket. The seven-mile trail we took was flagged as “strenuous” by the park. Seven miles of drops and climbs, from the bottom of waterfalls with dark green ferns and moss, up to chaparrals with manzanita shrubs dotting the stony, bare hillside.
We lunched on a platform overlooking one of the falls, taking in as much with our senses as we city people could: the tang of muddy earth, the lull of rushing water, the slipperiness of moss-coated stones. Our calves were cramped with the strain of hiking this roller-coaster of a trail. This trip, this vacation, was a pilgrimage to a place on earth we knew we had to enjoy now while we could still walk.
The air was fresh and wet and cold, the temperature rising to the forties, maybe the fifties. By the end of the hike, my left knee gave out and I had to walk sideways for the last half-mile. We had warmed enough to strip down to one layer — long-sleeve t-shirts and jeans — stowing all the rest into our too-small backpacks.
At the end of the hike, the temperature was dropping and the light was fading. We bee-lined for the showers. Have you ever taken a hot shower in an ice-cold stall? Any bit of your skin that isn’t covered by hot water feels the knife-edge of freezing air. I always thought I would linger during my shower, but I never could last long, the cold air and hot water battling over my body. By the time I toweled off, I was starting to shiver. I couldn’t get my clothes on fast enough.
Back to camp and a fire and some brandy. More hot dogs. More raccoons. They kept their distance this time and all was well until I reached for the bag of pistachio nuts that I had left on the picnic table. It was gone. Panicked, because I loved pistachio nuts and had only eaten a few, I searched under and around the picnic table. Then I heard it. The familiar crunch and crack of the nuts being broken open and then devoured. The raccoons had stolen the bag.
I glared at the bushes where they were hidden, unseen but not unheard. Outwitted by raccoons.
As we stood around the fire, sipping the pint of brandy, I wondered out loud whether Greg’s former girlfriend — the one just before me, the one who left him and then tried to come back — would have been a better camping companion, more experienced and fun. He laughed out loud and said, “No, she’d be lying in the tent right now if she came at all.” She was not, never had been, a good camping companion. “You’re a superior woman,” he said before he kissed me.
As we packed up the next morning, making sure we weren’t leaving any crumbs for the felonious raccoons, a doe and her fawn sauntered into our campsite. They paused when they spotted us, and the four of us stood staring for a minute or two. We were in awe by their proximity; they were waiting for us to leave so they could forage. I poured some trail mix — peanuts and raisins — into my hand and held it out. The doe leaned her head forward, taking only as many steps as she needed. Her soft muzzle tickled my palm. She never took her eyes off me and kept her body between me and her fawn.
We dropped the rest of the mix on the ground so the fawn could eat too.
This wasn’t my last winter hike at Big Basin, but it was the last one where I looked deep into the eyes of a doe as she ate out of my hand. It was the one where I learned that I had won the heart of the man I loved.
***
Hello, everyone, and thank you for reading. This story was written in response to a February flash challenge hosted by Mom Egg Review. No worries. I’m not going to post daily, but since it took me ALL day to write this, I just thought I’d go ahead and share. Here’s your reward for sticking with me this far.
Raji in a somewhat drugged state before his annual checkup with the vet.
No, I’m not done with all writing, just writing my perpetual WIP. After wallowing in one extreme for awhile (no writing), I went the other extreme in November and completed 50,977 words toward my novel. These were all new words (although the majority can be found in the dictionary). I know some people would say NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is crazy but there’s method to the madness, at least for me.
The commitment to write 50,000 words in a month means I have to put butt in chair and just do it. Although I know I don’t have to write 50k, the challenge is there and so I try to meet it. At times it was grueling. I took a day off now and then which meant that I really had to crank out the words on the other days. Here’s me after one long day of writing.
After a long day of writing, I am consoled (sort of) by Maxine (on my lap), Junior (on pillow next to me) and Raji (above me; with our temps getting chillier, he’s getting friendlier).
I finished on November 27 so I could have a couple of day to just zone out. Plus November 30 was my husband’s birthday so I didn’t want to spend that day writing.
I’m going to take December “off” from working on my novel, but I’ll recommit myself to writing daily. I don’t know what I’ll write but anything is better than nothing at this point. Who knows? Maybe I’ll try poetry! I bought Diane Lockward’s The Strategic Poet, thanks to Luanne Castle’s review of it. You can read her review by clicking here.
In other news …
MY SISTER IS HOME! Sorry for shouting, but you understand why. Yup, she came home on November 24, the day before Thanksgiving. That’s what my brother-in-law (and the rest of us) had been hoping and praying for. I’ve talked to her twice so far, and I cannot tell you how good it was to talk with her. She’s sounds like herself: lucid, ready with a laugh, positive, strong. Her sons boast about how hard she worked at physical therapy, knowing that the better she got, the sooner she’d go home. Now we can all breathe.
Maxine is still hanging in there, but she’s more or less getting hospice care now. At the last vet visit a couple of weeks ago, we learned that her kidney enzymes have shot up again. We could hear the disappointment in our vet’s voice. We all knew we couldn’t stop the kidney disease from progressing but we had been hopeful we could slow it down. Oh, well. To keep her hydrated, we’re giving her subcutaneous fluids every other day. To keep nausea at bay, we’re also giving her Cerenia every day. Mealtime is a challenge because she’s become “picky.” She’s a slow eater so we put her in a closed room by herself. She’s gets distracted by the boys trying to break the door down (sigh), but if she’s given enough time, she’ll eat most of her food. She seems to like leaving some behind for the boys.
So, good news about my sister; not good news about Maxine. Meanwhile, we’ve made a couple of trips to St. Marks Refuge to ride our bikes. I did not fall once.
Here’s a few scenes from our last bike ride, timed so we would be out on the dikes at sunset.
This is my favorite section of what is called the Deep Creek trail. The bayou is usually full of waterfowl: ducks, wood storks, spoonbills, herons, etc.My husband riding away.Opposite the sunset.
It was a fun bike ride that almost didn’t happen. About a mile and a half out, my rear tire went flat. Fortunately, my husband was carrying a new tube so we didn’t have to spend time trying to find and repair the leak. He saved the day again.
Now I have a lot of catching up to do and that means reading your blogs!
The Rascals beat out the Beatles as my favorite music group when I was growing. I had a major crush on Felix.
Many thanks to everyone who commented on my Monday post and provided me with sage advice. Ironically (maybe?), on Wednesday, before I got around to responding to comments, I made myself work on my novel a bit. I wrote about 600 words. Then I rewarded myself by reading the comments. Surprise, surprise (to no one), most of you suggested I write about 500 words a day. Well, golly gee, I had just written 600! And then today (Thursday), I wrote another 982. I do believe I’m grooving. My daily goal going forward will be 500 words. If I’m inspired and write more, well, that’s icing. But if I write at least 500, I can stop guilting myself for having (and needing) other interests.
Speaking of other interests and the multiple ways I’ve been avoiding writing, I forgot to mention exercise. In mid-July, my husband and I rejoined our local gym, and we have been faithfully going there three times a week, working out for an hour-and-a-half to two hours. We’re retired so we can take all the time we want. I’ve lost some weight and gained some muscle in the process. Given all that’s happened to my sister, I am even more focused on building strong muscles.
And then there’s the bike riding, which we did Tuesday. What a beautiful day. And, as it was a weekday, we saw few people.
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As it happens, when we go for bike rides, my mind wanders and often I think of my novel. That’s what I did on Tuesday so I was primed to do some writing on Wednesday.
Your encouragement helped as well as it always does.
A bit of good news before I close this post. Maxine had a checkup today and her creatine values have dropped yet again, to 4.4. Still elevated, but a hell of a lot better than 6.9. Her urine is still clear of bacteria, but the vet wants us to do two more weeks of the twice daily antibiotic injections. Apparently, that is the regimen. Who are we to argue? She promised that if Max’s urine is still clear after two weeks, then we can stop. We might even be able to reduce her subcutaneous fluids. The only real disappointing news is that now she has anemia so new meds (yay!) for the next two weeks. That cat is turning into a poster child for the pharmaceutical industry.
But she’s doing good. She really is. She’s peeing and pooping in the litter boxes more often than not. She’s steady on her feet and generally trots to her meals (food is her reason for being). She’s still sleeping a lot, but not when there’s food around. I don’t have high expectations for her, as she does have chronic kidney disease, but she really seems to be enjoying a better quality of life than she was a month ago. We are grateful.
Maxine chilling out after her morning with the vet.
In a New Yorker article (September 13, 2021), author Amia Srinivasan made this observation: “[…] the Internet, […] has simultaneously given us too much to read and corroded our capacity to read it.” The context was feminism and what we think we know about it, but her description of how the Internet has impacted reading applies far beyond her subject.
It’s something I struggle with every day. So much to read, especially online, but also on my Kindle and my bookshelves, the dining room table and the living room desk where magazines pile high. And yet I’m supposed to be writing.
I know I’ve been going through a stressful time. Which requires a couple of updates:
My sister’s cast was removed last week and she was fitted with a walking boot. She’s still at the facility, but she’s been having more good days lately than bad days. The facility change was definitely a good move. Still, the uncertainty as to when she’ll come home and what kind of help my brother-in-law will given as he continues care for her subdues my efforts to be positive. We all just keep saying, “One day at a time.”
Maxine, our feline dowager, has been more her old self lately. Spunky, willful, and talkative. She’s been handling our handling of the twice daily antibiotic injections and every-three-days subcutaneous fluids quite well. My husband has even been able to give her the antibiotic injection by himself, that is, without me having to hold her still. Unfortunately, she has “good” days and “bad” days: good days are when she limits her pee and poop output to a litter box or a potty training pad; bad days are when she and Junior get in a tussle and, in her excitement, she poops on the kitchen floor (this morning) or when she sits on the potty training pad but still pees on the floor (also this morning).
I’ve been working through my stress not by writing, but by gardening (healthy activity) and binging on a podcast call Casefile (maybe, maybe not healthy). If you enjoy true crime stories (is enjoy the right word?), check out Casefile by clicking here. A few things I like about the podcast:
The narrator is anonymous. He wants the audience to stay focused on the survivors and victims in these stories; however, his fans call him Casey.
The podcast has no dramatic reenactments, no roleplaying, no editorializing, no aimless, mindless banter. Casey narrates in a steady, calm voice. Occasionally he narrates dialogue, which can sometimes be humorous with his Australian accent.
I say no editorializing, but Casey’s empathy toward survivors and victims is real. At the beginning of each podcast, he cautions the listener in case the crime is of a particularly disturbing nature, such as crimes against children. For example, I chose to not listen to the episodes on The Moors Murders because Casey admitted he had to stop recording a couple of times because he was so disturbed by the abuse done to the children.
He has, on occasion, expressed frustration with law enforcement responses (or lack thereof) to violence against women. But he doesn’t rant, he doesn’t rail. He just points out when injustice is being served.
The episodes do not focus gratuitously on details of crimes. Casefile only shares what is necessary to understand the seriousness of a crime, which doesn’t require a second-by-second account of an assault or a murder.
The podcast often includes interviews, audio clips and other materials, providing a deeper context of the crime.
The effort Casey and his team put into their research and production is impressive. Links to their sources are provided with each episode.
My most recent binge from Casefile was several episodes on crimes committed by the The East Area Rapist, the Original Night Stalker, and the Golden State Killer in the late 70s to mid-80s who happen to all be one man–Joseph DeAngelo. The best episode was the last one where Casey read or played clips of survivors’ impact statements at DeAngelo’s sentencing hearing. It was the best episode because too often, justice is not found. In this case, it was. A little late, but that was due to the limitations of forensic testing at the time, the fact that DeAngelo was a former cop and knew how to avoid capture and identification, and lack of communication among the various law enforcement agencies involved.
Finally, if you write crime fiction, this podcast will teach you a lot about crime, the justice systems in the U.S. as well as other countries, and how law enforcement, even with truly dedicated officers, can be hampered in their efforts to find and bring the perpetrators to justice.
Now, what about my novel, which is about a murder?
I don’t consider myself a gardener really, but I might allow myself to wear the label of amateur gardener. I am thrilled when one of my plants starts to bloom. Why, hello there, Georgia Aster! I’m so grateful to have a fall-blooming plant.
Georgia Aster. Photo by Marie A Bailey.
My red penta is still going strong, and I’ve planted a lavender penta and a red-yellow lantana in the front yard. Fingers crossed that I can keep them safe during the winter. The following Ruellia or Mexican petunia was an impulse buy.
Ruellia simplex. Photo by Marie A Bailey.
We had gone to Home Depot to order a new dishwasher (a whole other story, but let me just say that we’re never buying GE appliances again). I needed a couple of pots so we went to the gardening section. This lovely purple plant caught my eye. We’ve seen it around our city so, hey, let’s get a pot and see what happens.
What happened was I did some research since the pot only said the plant was Ruellia. Well, according to the iSeek app, this is Ruellia simplex, a highly invasive plant.
WTF.
Through my research (and panic … what does one do with an invasive plant and why was it being sold at Home Depot????), I found the distributor (Costa Farms) who claims: “We sell sterile Mexican petunia varieties that don’t spread by seed. However, these are often vigorous plants and can colonize quickly in gardens and landscaping beds and borders — especially when grown in rich soil.” Okay, fine. The Ruellia I see around town seem well-controlled, but I’ll have to think long and hard about this. It’s so tempting to plant just this one in the front yard, yet perhaps I should keep it in a container.
Meanwhile, there’s that novel I should be working on.
One of the joys of gardening is discovering critters who like to eat my plants. I have three Black Swallowtail larvae on my Rue which is fine because that’s what Rue is for.
Larvae for Black Swallowtail. Photo by Marie A Bailey
More Black Swallowtail larvae. Photo by Marie A Bailey
I’ve also been knitting. Finally finished this wool lap blanket so I can put it away in my cedar chest since cold temperatures won’t be arriving down here anytime soon.
Teal and purple wool lap blanket. Photo by Marie A Bailey.
I’ve started crocheting granny squares for a larger blanket in a desperate effort to use up my stash.
I have a punch needle kit and a cross-stitch kit as well as three knitting projects waiting for my attention. And sewing? Did I mention sewing?
And then there’s my novel. Oh, boy. You see what I’m doing here?
I’m avoiding my novel because I’m intimidated by the idea of writing from the POV of three narrators. My instinct (these days anyway) says to stick with one, that it will be enough of a challenge to write in first person. I’m trying to work through that. I’m trying to get my writing groove back. But I’m a bit overwhelmed.
Going back to the quote at the beginning of my post, I am realizing that I’m my own worst enemy when it comes to being distracted and drowning. I need to develop some discipline if I’m ever going to finish my novel.
So what do you all do? You publishing writers out there: How do you organize your time? I see a lot of you engage in social media. How do you manage to do that AND work on your writing? Is it just a trick of the Internet that you all seem to be out and about on social media all the time? How do you manage to stay engaged and yet productive?
Thank you for reading, and thanks in advance for any advice you wish to share.
Bonus cat photo: Junior, the green-eyed bully who harasses Maxine until she poops.
Junior, green-eyed monster. Photo by Marie A Bailey
So the “scoop” (as my family likes to call news) is that the wing my sister is in is now (obviously) open to visitors. My brother-in-law and one of my nephews have seen her. She does have a UTI again, and it is being treated. (She had one a few weeks ago and, frankly, I can’t believe she would have developed another UTI if the staff were doing their job. Just sayin’.)
She still has some cognitive issues, possibly due to Parkinson’s, although dehydration and UTIs can also muddle the mind. This is why it’s so important that my sister’s husband and sons visit her: to be sure she is getting fluids and food and the attention she needs to assure her recovery.
So thank you all for your positive thoughts and prayers, your kind words and support. I imagine my sister is “not out of the woods yet” (another favorite saying in my family), but every day that goes by is one more day closer to her going home.
St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge, Stony Bayou, March 29, 2021
I’ve been down this dike before with you. I often veer off our path gaping at clouds in the wide blue sky, shuttering a desire to leave my bike and explore the bayous. It’s why we’re here, to feel the expanse of nature, the filling of our souls. Often ordinary but glorious cumulus clouds fill the sky.
There are clouds today but these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter against the blue cloth of the sky. Thin cotton rolls layer above our heads. Is this what they call a “mackerel sky,” I wonder but don’t ask out loud. You wouldn’t hear me anyway. You’re too far ahead. I always fall behind when we travel this dike. I want to stretch my arms, embrace the whole of the sky. I fall in love with these clouds like I fell in love with you.
***
I’m participating in Merril’s prompt for dVerse Prosery Monday. Click here if you want to join in. Frankly, I have no idea what I’m doing, but I seem to be attracted to challenges where I’m limited to 144 words or less. I suspect it’s because I’m working on a novel … lol.
Since I’m still in “procrastination mode,” I decided to participate in a word prompt via Dale via Sammi.
Use this word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend. How you use the prompt is up to you. Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like. Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. If you want to share what you come up with, please leave a link to it in the comments.
Hey, everyone, did ya miss me? Aside from hawking Jill Weatherholt’s latest novel (see here), I’ve been absent from the blog for roughly 6 weeks. As y’all might remember, my husband had back surgery (see here) the day before I started an intensive online writing workshop through Orion Magazine. Hey, why be boring and have major events happen sequentially? Best to do it all at once, don’t you agree?
In regards to my husband, he is doing quite well. In fact, he thinks the whole experience has been a miracle (he had set his expectations very low). In truth, the first week was a little rough as the 17 different drugs pumped into him slowly dissipated. The narcotics he was given for pain had side effects he did not like at all so he weaned off those quickly. I had thought that any post-surgical pain he’d have would be a “walk in the park” compared to his pre-surgery chronic pain. I was right. He is experiencing new kinds of pain (hello, arthritis!) but nothing as debilitating as what he experienced before.
You see, we didn’t know how bad his condition was before we met with the neurosurgeon. We didn’t know that he had already lost a lot of sensation in his feet because the loss occurred slowly, over a long period of time. You can imagine his joy when he stubbed his toe the other day and actually felt PAIN!
Yeah, it’s weird, but it’s all good.
Now … about my online writing workshop: It was probably … no, it was the BEST writing experience I have ever had! Scott Russell Saunders was kind with his feedback and generous with his time. He modeled the approach he wanted us to take, and everyone quickly followed his example. There were 12 of us participating, and we were asked to submit a piece (about 1500 words) once a week to Scott. He would then disperse our work to everyone. The pieces were split and discussed in alphabetical order: the first six participants had their work discussed one Saturday, the second set the following Saturday, and so on.
In our feedback, Scott urged us to discuss strengths and areas for development, but no “fixing.” After all, we were turning in drafts, not polished work. We would discuss each other’s writing during our sessions, but he also expected us to send written feedback as well. And Scott worked right along with us.
We had a couple of speakers (Sumanth Prabhaker and David Gessner), but otherwise it was just us. We Zoomed.
My workshop friends had varied backgrounds in botany, wildlife biology, conservationism, environmental justice; even, psychotherapy. In the course of this workshop, I learned about lichen, an urban farm in British Columbia, the American Toad, the American Mink and Lynx, the parks around Cleveland, Ohio, the prairies of Iowa, the life of killer whales, and fire. A few of my new friends live in the Pacific Northwest. The heat dome and then the fires filled their writing and our conversations.
As for my writing: I wrote three essays the first half, and they were well-received, enough so that I felt the workshop was a “safe place” in which to be a bit more vulnerable. I submitted a chapter from my ongoing, never-ending WIP Clemency. To my delight, everyone was delighted to have a change from nonfiction, and they were intrigued. They wanted more. So I submitted two more chapters, rounding out the workshop requirements, and now I am obligated.
I have to finish this novel.
That’s the gift I received from the workshop: encouragement from complete strangers.
So I gave myself a few days off to think about things, and I might need a few more days. I still have a lot of interests outside of writing. Now that I’m retired, I should be able to juggle everything … hahahahahaha.
Baby steps.
Just for now, know that I’m back and will be visiting all your wonderful blogs again and participating in photography challenges. And I will finish that novel.
This morning I walked in my neighborhood and found a wonderful cluster of morning glories.
Now that I’m retired, I need a vacation. I need some time to move the furniture around in my brain as well as my house. I survived my last week of work. I survived a lovely surprise retirement party via Microsoft Teams. I was both humbled and thrilled by the outpouring of well wishes and gifts.
I did not realize I was so well-liked and for a brief moment (very brief), I was tempted to say “I’ll stay.” Good thing I didn’t because I am liking my new life.
I want to to spend the next two weeks getting reacquainted with you and your blogs (if you have one) as well as developing some kind of schedule so I can resume my writing and maybe even eventually publish that dang novel.
Comments are closed because I’ll be visiting you and we can talk at your place.
Here’s a photo of me feigning surprise at the delivery of presents by one of my coworkers. (She was kind enough to send me a text ahead of time.)
