Sunday, August 02, 2009

Sunday

There's a pot roast on the stove. Husby made a lot of noise about cooking it himself and then crapped out on me, so I took that passive-aggressive energy and whipped it into shape fast. Plowed through the dirty dishes in short order and braised the meat in the dutch oven (Mom's dutch oven, bless her heart...I think it may be the first time I'm using it for the whole cook...last time I did pot roast, I braised and then crockpotted, but we're not that organized around here lately)...in another half hour, I'll put together the potato bundles and flip the meat. Also planning on throwing together Toll House cookies so we have something to snack on this week, but I've got that recipe memorized, so it'll be easy.

There's the beginnings of another semiautobiographical fiction sneaking its way into my head. Y'all who know me, know that I've written an entire novel, that'll probably never get published because it's so rough. I haven't unearthed it in ages. It was written during my first crazy time....a probably 10-year process. Then a couple of years back, we purchased a new computer, I transferred the whole novel to disc (3½" floppy), and was shocked to discover that the new system didn't have a 3½" floppy drive...had no idea they'd become obselete. I know, I know, Kinko's might still have the means to transfer it to CD...just never got around to it. Harder to get up the gumption when you know you're dealing with a significantly flawed work. There's most of a hardcopy here in the apartment, and I'm sure I'll sink into editing it, as the drips and drabs of this new novel start to invade my psyche.

I miss writing, but it's something that has to come to me at its own pace. I certainly don't want to be one of those editors who spends their lives reading other people's writing while dreaming of publishing their own Great American Novel. But the emotions that come with writing are so raw, the editing process gets tricky. But recently it dawned on me that Dad would never read my first novel. That realization really sucked, because I can still remember the pride in his face and voice, as he read my 5th grade reading project to the family that I'd gotten an A++ on. I ache with that knowledge and the damn fricking birthday coming up has me thinking about leaving my mark and all that, while I'm on this planet. My wry wit will only get me so far in this life.

I say my first crazy time, because I kind of feel like I'm going through my second crazy time right now. I recognize that I'll always have the depression, that my lithium deficiency is going to bring out certain eccentricities in my personality. But the last year has also been a roller coaster of hormones as we try to make a small Johnsonette, combined with the grief of figuring out a life without Dad. It's still so very raw, every day. I'm better at pushing it aside for work lately, but whenever I'm allowed to think about it, it still overcomes me. Brings me to tears on the way to work, or knocks my breath out without warning. I thought I knew death before 2007. I had no fucking idea.

Since then, I've occasionally vocalized how I consider myself a writer, but when it comes to that level of loss, there are no words. I'm slowly, ever so slowly, finally finding my words again. They aren't words that will heal anyone else necessarily, but perhaps by hitting the keyboard, I can start to find some peace for me on the subject.

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