Well, where do I start? My father’s cancer operation and its horrific aftermath? The painful return of the family business? The moment when my mother and I finally believed my father was better, and promptly both got sick? Or, when all began to settle down, the biannual school play (Midsummer Night’s Dream) for which I not only wrote the translation into modern English (well, except for certain passages), but I’m also doing costumes (pictures to follow).
Suffice to say, I’ve been interrupted. I’m not writing at the moment: I’m taking a breather.
Except, there’s this ongoing narrative going on in my head, because before all the shit hit the fan, I started plotting out this new novel project, and it’s in there, humming at me. I see connections between ideas I’ve had while I’m driving; I get sudden insights into characters I haven’t even begun to plot; the spores are taking root in the back of my head. I have a feeling when I really do sit down, butt in chair, it’s all going to come pouring out like a huge wave.
And right now? I’m making fake dreadlocks; I’m ripping t-shirts; I’m collecting tutus and fairy wings and making leather corsets. Because my fairies are going to be badass cybergoths, and the humans are mostly Steampunk. And the kids love it.
And you know what? I’m going to start blogging again, because I just saw Amanda Palmer talk about asking (see below), and about giving, and I think I know that path now. I may not be good at talking, but I can write. So I’m going to.