I fell off.
Fell off the earth, I guess, so to speak.
Once you stop writing, the inertia to return is stifling.
I’m sure some of you have experienced this, but ceasing to write has been so odd for me since writing was integrally therapeutic for me. My focus needed to return to saving money, dealing rare books, and finding ways to budget all the while raising the children, the dog, the guinea pig, an ever- expanding giant millipede, one flatulent hedgehog, the dwindling minnow collective/Borg, a stoic Japanese fighting fish, and a now terribly fertile crayfish gleefully adopted from a third grade science class.
“She” gave birth yesterday, so my time has been spent attempting to separate the nearly microscopic offspring into separate tiny habitats (read old Tupperware) before she gobbles her perilous progeny mercilessly.
So today I had a birthday party for Jesus event for Sue’s class and the children immediately flocked to the pantry where all the pets dwell. One of the mothers wandered in there, looked at me in a troubled yet intrigued way, and asked, “So what all kinds of creatures do you breed in here?”
“Breed! What do you mean?” I asked. “I’m a hedge fund manager. These pets are just a hobby.”
She left the pet room and poured herself another cup of decaf in my thrice-used Spode Christmas china.
It’s just a snapshot.
I’ve got more.