Weeheeheehee dee heeheeheehee weeoh aweem away
Weeheeheehee dee heeheeheehee weeoh aweem away
You’re welcome for that hellish ear worm.
Well, here it is Tuesday morning and I feel a lot better, more rested, than yesterday. I was extremely tired when I got home after work last night. I didn’t really do much of anything once I was home, other than cuddling with Sparky and watching this week’s Last Week Tonight with John Oliver, which I always enjoy, as well as two more episodes of Alexander on Netflix, which I am enjoying. I was always interested in Alexander when I was growing up–I liked Egyptian, Greek, and Roman history and culture before moving to United States history, then British, and ultimately European. I also watched some documentaries on forgotten kings and queens of Europe. Sparky mostly slept in my lap for much of the evening, and I retired early. PT was rough yesterday morning, but this Friday I get to go to the gym on my own for the first time in well over a year. YIKES. I only have a few exercises to. do there, and I am a little bit excited about going for the first time and getting back into the swing of working out regularly again.
I am starting to feel acclimated back to my life again, and I am also thinking I am feeling more like myself. I’ve been flooded with story ideas over the last few days (Alabama always does that for me, for some reason), solutions to issues in works in progress that I’ve been struggling with, and book ideas. This is, of course, a relief, as I’ve felt kind of stagnant creatively since the surgery. It’s like my brain is finally waking up again, something I was concerned about, obviously–when your identity and most of your life is wrapped around being a writer, the loss of creative energy in my mind is even scarier than falling from a great height or cutting myself (two of my biggest fears). I suppose it would be okay, but I also can’t imagine never writing again.
I actually have thought about it seriously during this time of forced solitude and recovery. Writing and publishing is like a roller coaster ride–filled with ups and downs and frightening hazards to get past. 2023 was obviously a bad year for me, but I did produce two books I am proud of, Death Drop and Mississippi River Mischief. Is it any wonder that I wasn’t able to get much work done after they were finished and proofed and approved? Bouchercon was at the end of August, and when I got back was when I had my teeth done and went on the soft diet–no surprise I was low energy and not able to write very much–and then came the surgery and the recovery. And of course Scooter died last summer…yeesh, what a shitty year, underscored by the grieving for Mom. So, having not really written much after the books went into production, and not really being able to create while I recovered, made me take some stock and wonder if I wanted to keep doing it–the publishing side, anyway. But now that my overactive imagination has been reignited, all those doubts and self-questioning seem like self-pity. Waaah, I’m not Stephen King. So what? Sure, more money would be nice, but it’s not really the be-all end-all of why I do this, anyway. I love writing, I love telling stories, and I love creating characters I genuinely am interested in and want to get to know better.
I feel good this morning. I woke up and didn’t feel fatigued, either. I got a lot of work done at the office yesterday, which was awesome, and tonight when I head home I am making groceries and have some chores to do around the house, too. And…hopefully will get some writing done, too.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, and I’ll check back in with you later.
Queer and Loathing in America 