Health, economic situation(s), family illnesses, and more have conspired to send my hard-to-juggle world into complete disarray. Be that as it may, I am doing my best to make a comeback, and at that with the help of friends who have supported me through all the insane drama (which I dislike intensely) of it all. Many thanks to each of them, and many thanks again for their unending patience. I am not an easy person to like, up close. There are days I don't even like myself, so I can hardly blame others for what I agree with... instead, I hope we all keep a good sense of humor. Some things are so silly that taking one's self too seriously is downright insane. It's a thin line... (ahem).
Anyway, to get on with the update, my first book, Thou Shalt Fly Without Wings, is doing fairly well. It's still available as both ebook and print through Amazon or my publisher's office.
Economically, it's not a perfect cure. I need to continue working. That's where the health issues come in. I have been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia Syndrome, which I (yes, laughing!) call "Princess and the Pea Syndrome." If you don't know about the symptoms, please take my advice about not laughing at those who suffer from similar. There are many causes of FMS, some of which can be tested for... others, not. I'm also chemical and medication intolerant. Add food allergies and sensitivities into the mix, and life gets interesting, to be mild about it. Not to mention chronic inflammation issues, such as tendinitis and ganglion cysts.
Were it not for friends who have helped me keep a working computer, contributed Dragon (hands-free writing software) and other items, I would have no hope of completing the book I'm working on now, an Appalachian-based novel for which this blog site was named: Song of the Rain Crow: Psalms from the Book of Memories. We are, again through no fault of our own (and involving health again), struggling to keep our home. Worse, due to a suggested limestone quarry, we're worried that our home will neither be safe nor peaceful. It's a mess. A mess we're trying to get sorted out. Soon, I hope.
In the meantime, we're optimistically growing a garden again. It keeps me moving. I can't do the standard kind of garden, but our joyous apparently scatterbrained mix of vegetables, flowers, and wild plants (and the occasional neighborly wildlife) produces a large amount of goods with far less labor and misery. We dry, can, or otherwise preserve all we can of what we can glean through the growing season.
If I stop doing things, I will stop being able to do them. So pain or no pain, natural remedies applied as possible, I keep poking along, and dragging my faithful mate, Ronnie, with me. It beats becoming a vegetative sop of illness. I refuse to do that... I have my days, but the good ones are gradually becoming farther apart. So... I will write. And if that fails, I think I must learn Morse Code... (cough).
Please bear with me. I'm over age 50, and learning voice-to-text software and how to write a gargantuan kind of novel. Every day is a challenge. Every day is a blessing. Every day is precious.
Here is the first Psalm from Song of the Rain Crow, my novel-in-progress:
~ * ~
Last night the full moon sat hunched in the sky, round and benevolent in mien. Around it gathered the glittering stars, like eyes reflecting the vast fire of a storyteller. A single plump cloud hovered close, looking much like a small child growing softly weary with the liquid rhythm of the words, thumb in mouth and satisfied so.
Once I was like that child, and once my eyes reflected the fire, and once, I was that storyteller. Someday so shall you be, in the fullness of life.
Come, listen to me. I will tell you a story of intricate cathedrals woven of green and growing beauties where jewels, living, nod bright at every turn. I will spin for you a tale of a land where the forest gods may have worn antler crowns and silken fur with necklaces of bone, tooth, and claw agleam.
For this is a land rich in past; as the spiral has turned and turned, legends have been born, lived, and died. Blood and ash have fed the hungry earth, and her bones have been hewn in turn by the hand of man, even as has human bone been cleaved of flesh.
Let the wild choir sing, the voices of the land have not yet been silenced. The dark eyes of the night seek the fire, but yet do not dare to come too close lest they burn in a hell of their own weaving...
Here, this night, this moment, we are safe. Come closer, child.
~ * ~
I will try to update the blog as I can. The only promise I can make is that I will be working on the novel (which is about 1/3 finished at present, and has vast stacks of notes and much work to be done) even if I don't post here. Peace, friends. ~ Rhonda