I'm supposed to be living the best of the writer's life. I dedicate 24/7/365 to my dream life of being an author. I love creating with the written word. I love communicating through words. I love the community which surrounds authors and books.
I haven't written a creative word in weeks and the prognosis does not look promising.
It's not the grief that's draining me, although I'd be lying if I didn't admit to its pain. It's grappling with a world which has shifted on its axis that has me consumed.
My mom, at 90, is determined to live in her home as long as she can. The perils of her independence become more apparent with each dented fender, burned dinner, or forgotten conversation. The solid vessel of family now makes a tinny sound when struck revealing unseen fractures made years ago. Transferring the legal life of my dad to my mom and others according to his last wishes has been met with competing narratives and misunderstandings.
And folks tell me this is "the easy death." One spouse dies and everything goes to the surviving spouse.
I used to see the world in its simplified way. I didn't scratch the surface. I didn't think I needed to.
My dad's passing opened up portal to the future and I can see its dystopian shape skitter across my bedroom ceiling as I lay awake.
I will use the gift of words I am told I have. I will talk, and question, and answer. I will clarify and empathize and remain discretely silent. I will try to untie the knots of misunderstanding and hopefully keep the fabric of my family knit together. I will pray and I will cry.
All of this takes the energy I need to devote to my craft. My fourth novel is halfway done. The other half will just have to wait.
But, I'm taking notes. I know my writer brain will come roaring back to life and I'll be ready.
