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How did I get here?
Did you ever have one of those days when you wondered exactly how you ended up where you are?
As you may have guessed, I’m having one right now. It’s probably because after I had my critique group last night, I headed over to Waterloo Records and picked up a CD I haven’t listened to in about 12 years. But I popped it into my minivan’s CD player (we had to replace the left front speaker recently, and it looks like the front right speaker is going to have to be replaced, too) and was suddenly transported back to another time.
A less complicated time.
A time when, to be honest, I would have welcomed more complications.
I was thinking about it this evening; right now, I’d like a life that’s relatively uncluttered, with lots of time for reflection — and, of course, for writing. And dream-following, of course; we only have one life, and it’s up to us to make the most of it.
But between the school plays and the kids’ health problems (yes, there are more now — not major ones, but issues that require further consultations, time commitments and worry) and the laundry and the bills and the editing deadlines and the oil changes I haven’t done yet (speaking of which, my inspection sticker expired in February and I still haven’t done anything about it), some days I wonder exactly how I got here.
And how I can get to Tahiti from here.
Which brings something else to mind. Several years ago, I moved to a beautiful 1860s Victorian house in Bethel, Connecticut. It was like something out of a fairy tale; my room was a beautiful pale peach, with antique hardwood floors. It also had a lovely balcony overlooking a grove of tall, tall trees; in June, it seemed like heaven on earth. I recall looking forward to a proper snowy Christmas, and vividly remember one December night, looking out my mullioned window at fat flakes of snow as they swirled down from the gray-black sky. It was beautiful — I half-expected snow fairies to pop out of the trees and perform a little pas-de-deux.
By February, however, the beautiful windows were covered with plastic and blankets (the house had no insulation, and the temperature never topped 50 degrees) and I was sending letters to the Chamber of Commerce in the U.S. Virgin Islands. (In my defense, I’d spent over a decade in Texas and didn’t own proper boots, much less a coat, so I was hardly prepared. As I recall, I spent most of that winter in the bathroom, reading about Arizona — with a space heater and a hot bath.)
But I digress. The point is, there are those of us who are destined to be content, I think.
And then there are people like me, who are always scanning the horizon, looking for what’s next.
And this entire post just goes to show why I should NEVER post after imbibing two glasses of pink wine. Because I get totally maudlin.
Okay. Enough navel-gazing. (And — obviously — enough pink wine.) I’m off to start chivvying children to bed. Oh, and writing? I’m in edit mode, on page 250 of a 400 (400!) page manuscript, and working at a rate of 30 pages per day. Hope to be done by this time next week, at which point I’ll try to remember where I was on the other manuscript when I switched gears.
How are you? Any exciting news? Any fun trips to destinations that you can tell me about? (These days, it’s all about vicarious travel…)