I've written three posts now, three bleak posts in the virtual trashcan.
It's hard to write tidy words. I'm messy in all sorts of ways.
One minute I am dancing around my dining room, washing windows to Elton John, and the next I am crying again. I shuttle one kid out the door, and miss him; I keep the other home sick, and wish I could go for a walk. Sometimes I walk in wonder, an hour alone, and study the leaves, talk to myself.
See? It sounds like I'm crazy, crumbling. I think it might be labor pain.
I'm beginning a new chapter in my life; I've been writing a first draft, trying out plots. I get the feeling I may need to do a little editing.
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