Have not been writing at all. Bronchitis and a wicked sore throat will do that to a person. Didn’t want to write, read, eat, teach, think or talk. Had to write a review. Had to teach. For the food part, ice cream and tea were good. But everything non-essential got shelved.
And then this morning I remembered some old journals I’d unearthed during spring cleaning. I’d tossed bunch of filled ones (I do not want my kids to read my diaries after I am gone…) but I kept a few that I’d started and abandoned for one reason or another. They were almost new. Figured I’d use them eventually. Today was eventually.
Not ready to work on the mystery again (my head hurts just thinking about it) but the thing with being a writer is, sooner or later, I gotta write. (And do laundry, but that’s another story.)
So anyway, I had no idea what to write about. Started reading the four or five pages at the front of the journal, which had a month (October) but not a year. From all I read I put the various pieces of my life together and figured it was probably 2004 give or take a year. Things have changed so much since then & all for the better.
I have an agent. I cleaned up health issues. Both my kids have good jobs and good love. Things with Al are great. The money situation is swell. I love my job. I published features in national magazines and stretched myself with a stint of broadcast journalism for the BBC. I wrote a book. And published it. And use it in my classes. Life is better than I ever could have predicted when I wrote in that journal five years ago.
And I realized all this for one reason: I decided to write today. Writing brought joy in this unexpected way. And until I get back to my story, I’ll be writing in my diary again. Three pages. Every morning.