Mostly words, I suck them in and then I lather up. Turn on the inner mixmaster and then when a story comes, all the words just come spewing back out, in a different order.
Since my favorite writer died (three weeks ago now), I've been watching myself from a corner. Like when we went on vacation (being a mom on a vacation is no vacation, but the scenery was different), I saw where jokes needed to be so I put some jokes there. I started wondering if I didn't make jokes what would our trip be like. Oh my god, imagine that kind of trip. Where I'm not making fun of everything. I would probably sleep a lot more.
I guess I was just watching myself to see if I was still in there. I think I'm in a holding pattern to see what's going to come out of this. I'm also between books - just finished one first draft, and waiting for feedback. It's like being first in line at the slaughterhouse, open door, and waiting for your number to be called. If I had the feedback I could at least get back to work. I hover.
Kids went back to school and I straighten my house, room by room, not perfectly but differently. Move the couch around so we can get a different view. I go outside and manage the farm. I am useful here. I know I can do more, so I do.
The new horse is just the challenge I needed. She's very good for a baby. She makes me stronger with my old reliable regular horse. He is happy to have her here, he even lets Travis out of his sight now without worrying. But if I am brushing her, he comes over and shoves her away so he can get all the attention. He knows how good love feels.
I don't understand how things feel real after someone dies, though. First it just seems like it couldn't have happened. And then it just keeps going on, and still it feels like it couldn't have happened. Why are we here and so loud and then silence just swallows us.
Best to use the loud we have. Our own personal loud. This is the whole thing.
