It happens now and again that I freeze inside. I simply stop. I go numb, and there is this sort of surrender akin to despair. I float through life during these periods, making lists of things that I must do (go to work, walk the dog, feed myself) and my dreams take a back seat to survival. It is this weird fugue that proceeds illness. The sick hit me Saturday at noon.
That morning, I was feeling well enough, tired, but I was getting things done; the laundry, the grocery shopping, walking the dog, playing with the dog, a little proof-reading of my R&R, some notes on my WIP (work in progress). I sat down, thinking I would make some tea and do some real writing. Then out of the blue, pain, gut-wrenching like I was being torn in two, pain. That is how it happens every couple of months, and for the greater part of my adult life. After a while and much vomiting and wailing, it passes, leaving me feverish and weak as a newborn kitten.
These episodes are a brutal reminder that time is no friend of mine, not when I was twenty and not now. Opposing that unpleasant truth, is my belief that I will live until I finish and publish the final book in my Idylls of Alleysiande series. There will be seven of these.
Reality and I have never gotten along. I am working on book two now while trying to snare an agent with book one. I have two other series that I hope to weave into my publishing career along with the Alleysiande books. I will be needing another few decades, but there is no bargaining when it comes to mortality.
Somehow, I have to stop counting on the mystical to keep me alive, and start dealing with the reality that if I don’t keep my eye on my dreams, time may run out before I have readers waiting for the next book. I can’t imagine what is coming this next week. I am a piss-poor prognosticator, but perhaps in the labyrinth that is my life, I can hide a bit longer from the grim reaper.