Just when I think I’m having a grief respite day, it hits. Two and a half months. It starts as a generalized nervousness, then spreads to a dull ache in my chest. Aha, the moment of recognition, then the
tears sobbing commences. I really hate this. I miss you today, Mom.
I watched Ghost Whisperer last night. I know, I’m the last person on the planet watching that show. I was also the last person I know to get a microwave. Meh. I was pretty upset they killed Jim off, and that the show would just bite from now on. But it was great, gutsy, and full of heart. Got me thinking about risk-taking in writing. Not that I would kill a hero, exactly, but sometimes you have to get your head out of the mashed potatoes–that’s what I call the rules of “what’s selling, what’s hot, what’s the must-do/must not do” mush. You can’t figure it out, and it’s like smothering in mashed potatoes. Without enough salt, or I’d eat my way out.
How did I gain 6 pounds? Um, I stopped running and started eating. You see, it got cold. I hate the cold. So I took the really huge step of buying warmer running clothes this morning. They look nice all folded on the bed. The six pounds? It’s the mashed potatoes, I guess. I think it’s since Mom died. I can fix this part easily–the other, not so much.
My neck is in distress. I bought the memoryfoam thingey, and hopefully that will help. Once again, I blame Ms. Bates up there. Who is the personification of excruciating grief. She’ll break your ankles and won’t let you out.
Nice editor lady liked a short story I wrote (free at the holidays) called Midnight Clear. It’s the story of my great-grandparents, a fire, and a ring.