The race is on. The horses are lined up. No two of them look the same. One is a spavined old mule with clunky shoes. There's a couple of work horses, neither pure bred. A Shetland pony with a wicked look in his eye. A shining racehorse stands neck and neck with a trotter and a Tennessee Walking horse. There aren't enough spaces, and some line up outside. When the gate rattles, the Thoroughbred snorts, sweats, tightens up on light, delicate racing plates. The others catch fire, all except that solitary old mule, and jiggle in their allotted spaces.
The gate opens, and they're off.
Well, all except that mule.
It yawns and sighs, eyes the motley jumble throwing dirt and turf in its face, and plods on out with no intentions beyond making it to the end of the day. And making it to the other end of the race is doable, so the mule flips its stubby tail, haw-haws a few times, and gets on with the job. No hurry. No way to hurry. Just pick 'em up and put 'em down, repeat, repeat, repeat.
That mule is me.
Each day, I open up my eyes and yawn, then plod on. I'm no longer sound and healthy, and getting to the end of the day is about all I can truly aim at doing. My mind runs faster then the body can manage. I go to bed exhausted and wake up tired. At least, when I do sleep, that's some improvement. Keeping shoes on is about the same as that mule, too. So far, so good.
So I'm back to work. Planning books. Working on assembling what I can to publish, working on selling copies of the book already released. Every day is a new challenge, and every new challenge is loaded with old trauma, by and large. I can do this. I can get to the end of the challenge. I may not get there first or with the most, yet prevail, I will. Because I will. And I will do it to the best of my ability, come what may.
When you write, aches and pains and pains with their own aches (also know as intrusive people) will attack your progress plans. Politics and medical needs, bills that have no way to be paid, all of it. It's just dirt clods, in the end, and if you mix a little good old-fashioned manure in with it, you can grow things.
Kick a few clods. Heck, plant a few seeds or cuttings. Tomorrow's a new day, and the people who pour negativity into your morning coffee should get it right back in their faces. (The negativity. Not the coffee. We need our coffee.)
I'll try to post something new here soon. I have a lot of pictures and ideas saved up from my absence. With a new computer to work on, life is that much easier. At least I have a slot in the gate to call my own.
Plodding on. Waggling my ears, just to tick off the busybodies who judge without all the facts. Bless their little pea-pickin' hearts. Life will go on just the same without them in it. And books. There must be books. Maybe we can use the ney-sayers for fodder, grist for the mill, and then write them out of the story with a smile.