It has been seven months since my last post. Seven. S.E.V.E.N.
Is there significance in that? Probably not, but I thought I’d extend a little fanfare in recognition. Please rise and clap. Thank you.
So, what has been happening around here in the past seven months, you ask? Hmm . . . we had spring, summer and now it’s fall. I attended two weddings, two conferences, numerous birthday parties, had a part time job show up on my doorstep (literally), babysat lots of grandchildren, drank gallons of coffee with friends and family, lost 45 pounds, drove through the Rocky Mountains three times . . . and a whole lot more.
Yet, during all that time, I wrote nothing that could be construed as good, interesting, or book-worthy.
Oh, I wrote. All the time. Everywhere. I have notebooks full of ideas. Pages of dialogue. Paragraph upon paragraph of description. But none of it ties together.
I have to believe that this horrible dry spell will end. Soon. And if you’re a writer, I don’t have to explain how utterly discouraging and frustrating and disappointing a dry spell can be. It affects you. In everything. You can’t explain it, as much as you try, and I love the people in my life who support me and pretend to understand even though they don’t. They can’t.
Seven months is a long time. I am not a patient person and I have done my part through this desert; praying, keeping myself motivated, looking for ideas, trying new things.
I feel as though I’m on the edge, ready to jump off a cliff into the unknown. I don’t know what I will see as I soar over that new landscape, but I think that all of the snippets I’ve written in my notebook will be flying with me, waiting to land in the place I make for them.
Sense the anticipation?