What. A. Summer.
I celebrated my birthday. My Godfather was diagnosed with renal cancer. My tiny, furry family and I moved into a beautiful new home. My hot man celebrated his birthday. I passed my probation period through my promotion. It’s mine now. I celebrated my one year anniversary at my grown-up job AND my one year anniversary with said hot man in the same week. My Godfather’s cancer sent him into what I have to describe as a free fall, instead of a health decline. We lost him on August 24th. He was 71 and one of my heroes. He has been with me since the minute I was born.
Commence inner scared, lost, terrified, 5 year old.
Compacted with all this, we have not set up internet in our beautiful new home, so all my pages have gone dark. Being a professional gypsy means the only reliable internet connection I can find is in whatever Starbucks through which I happen to flutter.
My writing has, admittedly slowed to less than a crawl, as well. The idea I had (and still have) has a lot to do with death. I didn’t think losing my Godfather would affect my progress with my story, but it stopped me in my tracks. I’m not done being angry.
Within three months of his diagnosis, we had lost him. I can’t help but get swept away in the waves of “could haves” and “what ifs” and “if onlys.” I want somebody to blame. I want this to be somebody’s fault. I don’t know why, as it would do no good. Having somebody to blame would not bring him back. But there’s nobody. This is nobody’s fault. This is just a thing that happens.
A shitty, shitty thing.
He wasn’t a young man. Despite knowing that people can live well into their 90’s and up into their 100’s these days makes me feel like he was robbed, but he lived a full life.
I’m not considering this dark period a block. It’s a hiccup, and a big one, but not a block. I still have ideas, I’m still jotting down notes, and I’m still dreaming up my story, scene by scene.
There are no excuses with writing. The only way to produce work is to WRITE.
So with that, I leave you with the image of me sitting in Starbucks, typing furiously into my laptop, ranting at you, making funny faces because of the stinger injury in my shoulder, drinking a COLD pumpkin spice drink because summer refuses to die. Feel free to visualize all this with me twirling an imaginary mustache.