I’m ashamed to say this: I haven’t written much since springtime hit.
As osteoarthritis has taken over in my neck and pain sending units, and probably all the way down to my fingertips—although it’s hard to say which is true because I haven’t yet had X-rays of my shoulders, elbows, wrists, or hands—it has become increasingly harder to mangle words on the keyboard.
This was our first planting season in the new house. (It’s new to us, but not a “new” dwelling.) Husband Michael and I have taken the exterior on a wild ride from ugly-dirty-yellow-with-brown-everything-else to vibrant barn red with avocado and cream shutters and doors.
When my legs wouldn’t hold me up any longer, Michael would bring me a chair to sit on while I painted. When my shoulders or elbows or wrists would no longer move, I’d “sway” back and forth with the paint brush. When my hands hurt so badly I couldn’t hold onto the paint brush, I’d do something else for the remainder of the day—like nap.
We’ve painted, papered, built shelves, and decorated until we only have three rooms to go on the interior transformation. We’ve moved cabinets around in the kitchen, turned a tiny, dismal, master bathroom into a little piece of paradise, and even run the water line for the refrigerator twice because we changed our minds on its location.
It’s fun to say “we’ve” done this and that, but the truth is that husband and son have done all the heavy moving, lifting, and crawling. I’ve done the “pretty” work as I could accomplish it.
As we’ve gotten to know our neighbors on either side we’ve learned more and more of the history of our home. We now understand why the flowerbeds have recurrent ten-foot-long weed tubers that never seem to get completely dug out. We know why the lawn is more like a thistle feeding frenzy than a grassy bare foot-friendly stroll.
While I can no longer use a shovel, I can sit on the ground and maneuver a small trowel. Even on the “bad” days, pulling out a few weeds is encouraging … metaphorically.
I’ve been taking full advantage of all those allergy shots. I’m actually spending time outdoors and enjoying it! And, I’m learning the names of all the perennial flowers as we’ve planted them in the new beds. Today, we actually “planted” a big white metal headboard in our new shade garden under the twisted, artistically and symmetrically-challenged tree next to the little creek that meanders through our property. (We’re going to tell the grandkids that that’s where our flowers take naps.)
Yep, I’ve managed to make all of my deadlines as a freelance writer because no matter how much my muse has dawdled and dinked around or how much I’ve hurt, the thought of disappointing my editors is not something I’m willing to do.
I’ve written epistles to my children and a few friends. I’ve congratulated my friend Ronii on the birth of her eighth child. Yes, eighth! I’ve forwarded funny emails with my comments added.
On The Writer’s Chatroom side of my life, I’ve written many emails to potential guests, and I’m proud to say we’re booked through the end of 2007! And, former beauty queen and debut author Tosca Lee has agreed to be our first guest of 2008.
We’ll also be heavily involved in the “launch” of debut author Jordan Dane. She’s got three books coming out back-to-back next spring. For a writer, that’s the equivalent of launching a 40-foot sailboat you’ve just spent every available moment building in the back yard for five years.
I’ve honored my commitments. However, my fiction writing seems to have gotten buried in the “back 40” right along with my resolve to write every day.
I’m also ashamed to say that my website hasn’t been updated in so many months I’m embarrassed to give out the address. My blogs have become strangers.
So … Renee Barnes (Trailer Park Gazette and The Writer’s Chatroom fame) and I have committed to writing every day—to get ourselves back on track. And just to keep us honest, we’ve also committed to sending each other what we’ve written every day!
So, here it is Renee! I promise to do better tomorrow!
Oh … and August 18th would have been my Daddy’s 76th birthday. Happy birthday Dad! I sure do miss you. Looking back, I realize that he was an undiagnosed Fibromyalgia sufferer, as he had all of the same symptoms and ailments that I have. He buried the pain with Canadian Club rather than Vicadin. Gee, I wonder which is harder on our bodies?
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