Rational arguments, facts, fair points get lost when people are tired and worried and, frankly, scared.
It’s not so simple as a big bang wham bam there she is black dog mean reds sit on your head event, is it?
It’s been an interesting experiment. I have surprised myself. I have been surprised.
The time is quickly approaching for another visit to Alabama. And so also with me now are all the feelings …
Trust me, I’m a woman of many, many opinions. Oh, yes, I definitely have them.
Did I jack it all in too early? Do I really want to be a stand-by chicken sitter earning absolutely no money at all instead of a moderately powered executive earning more money than I could ever need? Did I jump ship too soon?
I’ve started running again. Not long runs. Not like the ones I used to do not too very long ago. But I’m running. Again.
Here it is. 31 December. The end of one year and the beginning of the next. Time to review the resolutions. Time to evaluate the year.
There are, of course, some legitimate reasons for the hiatus. I spent November writing a ‘novel’ during National Novel Writing Month. NaNoWriMo for those in the know, which now I am. And then, of course, there are ‘the holidays’, bound to consume anyone with a heart, right? Before that, but after my little trip to the Deep South, there were visitors and jet lag and, and, and. . . .
You see, I do use the ‘f’ word a lot. I use the ‘f’ word a lot when I talk. Much, much more frequently than I do when I write.
These last few days, we’ve been hosts. We’ve had guests. And lovely, lovely guests they were too. No, really. We like having them here.
Thanksgiving. That holiday that means absolutely everything to Americans and not a single thing to most of the rest of the world.
Yesterday we agreed, the man and I, that it’s probably best if I move this whole ‘writing operation’ into the barn.
I’m a bit ditzy at the best of times. A bit of a ding-bat. A bit flakey. I’ve never been diagnosed with ADD, but I’ve cross-checked the signs and symptoms list more than once.
Glazed eyed check-in clerks. Cramped tubes of people. ‘Border Control’.
So. I’m back. Back in the UK. Back in Wales. Back in Snowdonia. Back on the hill. The man survived without me. As did the fur and feather babies. Life did, indeed, go on. . . .
As I drive farther south, deeper into lower Alabama – LA, as the joke goes – it’s hard to ignore the exhausting ‘poorness’.
‘Social media’, as they say, is an interesting thing. A fascinating communication tool. I am certain there are very studious …
There is a saying, I think, that you can never go home again. I’m quite possibly bastardising that terribly, but surely it makes sense.
I think my eighth year is when I became cynical.