Spent most of the last year or more trying to stay steady, stay sane, and failed as much as I rallied.
Still working on the novel I thought I’d finish in months. Still fighting.
Two novels under consideration out in the ether, and I pray they find homes.
I’ve written 11 poems in the last seven days for no reason I can explain, first time writing poems and years, but I sent them out too. We’re all left to reaching the second we hit the last keystroke.
Hours spent tonight recording my reading a story for a podcast interview nine hours from now. Sure I stumbled over too many words, my mouth too dry or wet, but it’s done.
Half a slipstream story done; a half dozen others started or imagined.
I have to make sense tomorrow, but no idea how to talk my process or work. When people ask how I write, why I write, I always shrug, turn away, and answer, “I spend a lot of time alone.”
Tomorrow, the next day, grace I can’t ask for, or fresh disasters to reconcile without lessons worth learning. Only the words, and always the words.