I’ve gone from being a full time writer, to being a part-time writer slash part-time bookkeeper, to being a more than full time bookkeeper running from gig to gig. I am grateful for the paying work. I’m happy to have wonderful opportunities. And I want to serve my clients well. Plus, Dad is relieved that I’m finally back to work. But not having time to write is unacceptable.
I made the commitment to myself to blog daily in November — a commitment I broke yesterday. I’m even behind on Project Gratitude. And I haven’t had time to go on my long walks lately. Whine. Whine. Whine.
Whine. I miss working in my home office with two cats napping within arm’s distance. I haven’t even sat at my own desk in weeks. I miss that desk. I miss the cats. I miss my idea journal.
I’m not happy with the slapdash posts I’ve been doing. Perhaps blogging daily is counterproductive if it just means I’m putting up crap just to say I’ve posted.
Surely I could push myself to be more energetic, more creative, more . . . blah . . . this is boring me.
Two years ago tonight he coated a piece of garlic nan with peanut butter
He wanted me (he had me)
to have protein. It tasted good.
I wanted him (I had him)
to taste it, but he didn’t. I think he suspected the nan was cooked with dairy butter.
Sometimes I feel like I’m a ghost moving between memories. I haunt the street where he stayed that semester. I haunt the restaurants we frequented. I haunt the tree he’d stand under when he waited to let me inside.
Maybe, from his other dimension, he sees me and says, “It’s okay, Ruth. You can go on now. Cross over back to the living.” Not yet, I argue.
I avoid imagining that he is nonexistent. That’s too painful.