So Here We Are

 During the course of the last few years, I honestly never thought I would be sitting here at my desk, staring out at the tops of the trees in my backyard, wondering what to say. Which is funny, because, as you know, I'm a writer. I suppose then, as a writer, it's always good to begin at the beginning. And I am literally at the beginning of a whole new chapter of my life. Let me digress for a moment and give you a brief overview.

My mother had Alzheimer's disease. It was bad. It was ugly. I'll save the really messy stuff because that's not what this blog is about. But, I will say, whatever you think about keeping your parents at home, it's ten times worse than you can ever imagine. It's hard, it's dirty, it's disgusting. I cried every day for ten years. The last five I cried twice, and sometimes, three times a day. The burden was incredible. It was never easy. Even with paid professional help. Even with visiting nurses, and eventually hospice. Bone weary even on my good days. It was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do--watch my mother die right in front of me--but I don't regret one second of it. She was my mother. 

My mother passed away the week before Thanksgiving  (2021). Since then, I have been cleaning my house, and putting furniture back where it was. (When my mother moved in, I had to rearrange three different rooms, on three different floors, three differnt times. I have been living in absolute chaos for the last five years.) The whole intention being--that when my house was in order again, I would be able to go back to work.

Work. Definition: Writing. Sitting down for aught hours in front of a keyboard churning letters onto the great big white page on the computer screen. (And praying this will be the one to catapult my career.)

When I had the discussion with the person-who-lives-with-us that I intended to go back to work, he thought I meant in the real world. I said, "No. Back to writing." He scoffed. "I thought you wanted to go back to real work." I wanted to punch him in the face. Writing is real work. I then proceeded to tell him about the editing, and the formatting, and the cover making, and the cover copy writing, and the next editing, oh, and then the writing, oh, and I neglected to mention the social media component. He shrugged his shoulders and "uhhed" me.

So, here we are. Back at the beginning. Again. 

The house is in somewhat of an order. Even if I still don't have cabinets. Or a dishwasher. I can breathe through the second floor--it's not stuffed and cramped and dark. I have two desks upstairs in the dining room, and my "writing room" downstairs. 

I've only published two books in the last 4 years, one Regency, the other WAITING FOR YOU IN WICKITOCKET. Not that I haven't tried to write anything. I'd get great ideas, write the first few chapters, and then give up. However, I've also been allowing other ideas to brew and percolate, and I think I've hit on something good. We'll see what happens when I'm finished. 

I feel good. I feel bad, because my mother just died, and I should be in mourning, but she's much better off where she is now. Alzheimer's is a suffering I would not wish on my worst enemy. I'm at peace, because she is at peace. And I'm not feeling guilty because I feel good. 

Now it's time for me. I need to go back to work. As much as I'd like to think it, money doesn't grow on trees. And after two years of a pandemic, I kinda' got used to being home ALL THE TIME. Not having to drive anywhere except for groceries. Just call me a homebody. Who hopefully will be able to convince the person-who-lives-with-us that when I say I'm going to work, it means do not bother me. For anything except blood or fire. 

So, here we are. 

Writing. Blogging. Working. Yay me.

See you next time.

Robynne Rand (c) 2022