I am tired, as always, it seems. My health issues are like nagging, whining children. Demanding attention and never satisfied with whatever efforts I make to deal with them. We are not meant to talk about these things of course.
Challenges are everywhere. What is wrong with acknowledging that?
I am not writing much and when I am mentoring, I am aware that I know what I should do. So this is a tiny stretch of that writer’s muscle. It is weary. not atrophied. I know I can bring it back to full strength quickly – if I can force myself into a routine that will work for me. Always the dream, and yet I am aware I impose these schedules on myself.
I am peaceful again because of recent events. We must always trust our intuition; it calls there, a soft hopeful murmur in the darkest dreams. It reminds us we cannot explain everything, and we should trust that we can’t. My intuition – the hope that kept me going through many fearful moments – proved true.
London is so lovely in the nervous start of sunny spring. The daffodils are poking through now, lots in bloom. I have some lucious tulips on my desk, blushing things of gold and pink. They give me a point of colour to refocus my lapses in concentration. When I am thinking….Oh Nancy! Why do you not want to be born? Why is this such a tortorous labour? I can feel you kick again though, that is a good sign. Kicking around my head impatiently to dance into the unprepared world. Nancy is my hero – in my novel. Maybe I will put some of her on here one day.
Writers – please write! We are the backbone of all things creative; we are the story tellers and the spell casters. Remember words are magic, the best magic there can be.
And now I must go and not be such a damn fucking hypocrite.