It seems I keep starting a story only to befall a distraction.
I began my mystery novel; my wife suffered an appendectomy.
I began my adventure novel; I was admitted for surgery.
I decided to change paths and write short stories, my blog and such; my father was admitted to the hospital.
Is this an omen? Should my pen rest until another day comes?
What comes along your path? How do other writers do it? I keep coming up with questions but very few answers.
Life experience has taught me, with stressful events pressing; my imaginative compel withers as my psyche reduces to a folded wane, vanishing beneath the heat of an oppressive event. It seems as though an assignation of the last of three years met with challenge and my hope was tomorrow would relinquish its grip from around my throat. It seems the inevitable is next, and yet my preference is to ignore the eternal events that plead the attention in all of us eventually.
An elderly couple lives near us. They are kind and generous and the wife likes to bake brownies. The husband walks to our house to deliver a hand of home grown bananas. I share mangoes from our backyard tree, and we wave as we pass on the street. For the few minutes we see each other during the exchanges, we make promises of gathering for a drink and discussion. It is something I would look forward to; the hour out of our day it would take. Compared to a life of 89 years, that is not a long time, but life drives us forward at a ridiculously fast pace. Monday becomes Friday and January, December. By the time you realize what has happened, time has passed…
He died last week.
My aunt's favorite saying was, "Don't bring me flowers when I'm dead." She had a good point. Think about all this for a moment and relate it to the last time you said, “We should get together.”
Happens all the time.