Around our apartment, there are various deposits of crumpled black socks. These are mine. I will not take pictures of them (nobody wants to see that) but I do have a habit of toeing my socks off, forgetting that there were socks in the first place, and going about the rest of my day, often with the aid of the herds of flip flops that also seem to roam at will throughout Stately Bowling Manor. I do not know how this first came to be, but I do know that, by this age, that is probably going to be how things are from here on out. Future apologies to whomever gets the pleasure of dealing with me in my golden years.
This is not a post about my footwear. This is a post that I am writing before I get the laundry into the basket, and hauled down to the laundry room. Hence the collection of sock piles, and my eternal gratitude to the day I made the executive decision that my socks would only be black, even in summer. This ensures that they all match. This may be balanced out by Real Life Romance Hero’s predeliction for novelty socks, but he wears them well. This post is actually about writing.
This week, I accidentally acquired a new project, with a great team of smart, creative, like-minded women. This project will be work, yes, and it will also be fun, the fun part being the part that got me to yes. More on that in future posts. This is also the week that Housemate is out of state for over a full week, RLRH is doing some cool stuff, including making awesome quesadillas, and my planning system is getting one heck of a workout. Not that I mind, exactly, because I would much rather have too much to do than too little, and the act of organizing stuff makes me want to do more stuff, so I am calling it all good.
Yesterday was one for the books. Pun intended. A two hour (maybe more?) chat via messenger for new venture dovetailed with a domestic tornado chain, now past, which involved a stress bomb (now diffused) and an anxiety attack for me (fine now) and the whole thing reminds me of when I was but a wee princess, and my mother would bundle me in seasonally appropriate garments on the first day of blue sky, and go out to see what things looked like after the storm. This post is kind of like that.
Several times this week and I am probably not done yet, I have used the phrase, “I am an author, first,” and I am probably not done saying it yet. I can do other things, but writing my own fiction does, and has to, come first. When asked what two words I would say to my younger self, my answer is always the same. Keep writing. Whether the younger self in question is six, twelve, twenty-three, forty-five, or whatever, my answer is always the same. Keep writing. To elaborate, tell the story until it’s told. If I can tell her a couple more things, a recent addition is to do one thing at a time, give it full attention, and then move on to the next. Scheduling is great for this, and it comes with lots of pretty planning toys.
Follow the love, that’s another good one. For me, romance fiction is a big, big love, so aiming my time and talents in that general direction is going to work for the common good. This means writing it, reading it, spreading the love of it. I am totally up for all of that, and managing my time and energy so that the best of me goes to the best of that. Keeping my blogging schedule and focus is a big part of that. Which is why you’re getting this before I head off to play with my imaginary friends. Good stuff is coming, and clean socks, I hope, will be part of that.