Hi Lighter,
Forgot to answer your novel question. I have Chapter One done (for a long long time) and the rest of the plot outlined in my head, but life derailed the writing. I don't know that it's a type or genre of fiction, but I'll say it's funny, poignant, and about child abuse. How those go together is that it's kind of an aftermath book, a woman who heals two children by, errrr, rescuing (kidnapping, if you wanna get nitpicky) them. And then there's a road trip, some fantasist stuff, a shambling burned-out detective. And a happy ending. I love the story and everyone I've narrated the bones of it to has too. I will be fulfilled by writing it, and it should take a couple of years. What I have grieved about is the way I let it fall behind.
My T said I have a mildish almost-PTSD thing going on, about jobs/bosses/money. So I need to get all the way through that to a more stable space, before I can carve out the time/focus to do my Real Writing. But yes, it's really what I want.
I think in many cases writers are absolutely exploding with ideas and stories but just lack the support system or safety or structure to enable it. It's A Room of One's Own (Va. Woolf) in ways--while realizing that the room must be paid for or it doesn't matter what you can do inside it.
PR, I thank you for this:
I do think that sometimes a long period of inactivity, nothingness, and just letting those feelings come out from whatever rocks they're hiding under until they make themselves a nuisance... well, sometimes, that's exactly what's needed.
I am feeling better physically and the forced-withdrawal of being sick has triggered a lot of stuff, plus a lot of isolation. Now that I'm moving outward again, I can look back and see that the darker fears and depression maybe just have needed to cycle through me, so I could move out into life again.
Good luck trying to convince people who care for you that this is OK
Well, in classic grass-is-always-greener mode, what I wished for most while ill was people noticing/responding to the state I was in. One neighbor brought food after I called and asked her to, very kindly. The pattern with the two closest friends is to care, but at phone distance (understandably, nobody wants a virus). But other people in my life don't call or even leave something at the door. I sense a social change in that, and it makes me sad. I'm not THAT old, and when I am, I can easily see how scary it may be to live alone. (If I had family checking in, I'd feel less of those cold-dark feelings when I'm wobbly and unwell.) Zero interest in changing my living circumstances any time soon, but I'm gradually facing why people do.
I'm hanging in, though. My mother enjoyed her own home, with
Cinderella's my help for her last decade. She spent the last 14 months in a nursing home, but made it until 98 with only that forced-change. I don't have a D in my life and doubt I will again, so we'll see. Could be I'll couple up and inherit stepfamily, which I would love. Or friends and I may cobble together something else. I'm really pretty well situated for a decent transition to having some help though, if I found the right person one day.
I wish I DID eat chicken soup! (I eat fish, but not birds or mammals.) I'll write a separate post on the Food I Dream Of, maybe some of you guys will have ideas.
Love y'all,
Hops
