Summertime. Hospital stays. No rain. Little sleep.
So many things take their toll. But, healing comes slowly, the heavens sprinkle moisture here and there, and sleep finally sneaks in.
In between, I write. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Sometimes when my patient sleeps. Sometimes when everyone is resting and the washing works its magig. My words have returned. Why? I don't ask, I just type, faster and faster.
Perhaps nobody reads the trials and tribulations, hopes and dreams, and fears and struggles of my fictional slave families (or my own) but their lives (and my own) are rushing forward.
This is absolutely the final re-write of "the novel." I've decided. We're going to the finish line. I even took up the welcome mat and absolutely refuse to allow any new characters to get involved in the story. When a prospective character wakes me from my precious sleep, I shout, "NO," and return to sleep. Dear Heart understands.
When I wander about the house mumbling, "Where are my shoes?" or when I go to the porch with an unmatched shoe on each foot, Dear Heart and Daughter grin. "She didn't look under her desk."
Everytime I stop by the keyboard, my shoes come off. It's an uncontrollable thing. I can't help it. I simply can NOT think or type with shoes on. Honest.
Today we were ready to go to Thursday worship and sure enough. Three and a half pairs of shoes hiding way back under my desk. All are now in their own proper places. I can start over again.
For now, I'll put on the ones I just kicked off and go out on the porch with Dear Heart and Daughter and give thanks for people who love me even when I write.
Blessings,
Liz
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