I think it snowed here this morning, and I don’t just mean the static that fills what goes for my brain these days. Yesterday I finished up editing an article while a) listening to my brother-in-law talk about climate change (he is an engineer, so his perspective is all new and interesting and yet strangely familiar), b) making sure my sister was amused, and c) making sure my sister wasn’t picking on the kid. (She can’t help it. The Kid is an only child and so she gets all this adult attention that she would probably rather duck.)
I asked five stupid questions to my editorial overlords, who didn’t seem to mind. I fessed up that I was editing in between making sure there were things for other people to eat for lunch, and that the Kid got to [college redacted] tour on time. Now the Kid is on her way to another college tour (accompanied by her parents), and I’m sneaking away to report on my nonexistent writing life.
Ah, writing. I almost miss you.
Everyone seems reasonably happy. I’ve not had to hit the whiskey just yet. And as long as everyone (I’m looking at you, stripy feline) gets through today’s vet appointment OK, then I will try not to complain any more than strictly necessary.
Maybe, writing, I don’t miss you so much after all.
Do you freak out more or less than necessary?