Yesterday, I found myself running, in heels, from the Town of Drexel utility truck. It was a gravel driveway, my driveway. I had been taking out the trash and the guys in the truck surprised me, so I ran from them.
Not one of my proudest--or most graceful--moments. Sometimes I forget that I'm thirty-five, not nineteen, and that a pick-up truck with maybe three or four youngish, oldish guys with messy beards and ball-caps crawling up my driveway to check my power meter may not find the sight of me running away from them especially cute.
But, the entire situation seems emblematic of my life these last few weeks. Must get my life together. Get back into the writing seat, the blogging seat, the normal chaotic but managed life of my busy little family. Get out of the driveway before the utility truck is bearing down on my behind. I'm too old for this sort of disorganization.
Confession: I've already failed my new year's resolutions. Haven't worked on my new novel in a month or more.
Confession: I'm thirty-six. Almost thirty-seven.
But, I'm not dismayed. Guilt is useless; action is what counts.
Coming soon: Tuesday morning story-writing sessions, building fiction from the ground up. I'm back in task-master mode. Join me.