On Hibernation

Struggling author. I’m starting to realize it’s not a clichéd phrase, after all. One envisions a scrawny male with unkempt hair in a tattered duster wearing fingerless gloves. One glove has a moth-eaten hole near the thumb. Perhaps he has a cough. He is shy. In love with the rich whale-oil heiress from across town. He writes late at night, by candlelight, after his day job hauling nets at the docks. He is published. No-one notices. He considers giving up. Maybe the merchant’s life isn’t so bad after all. Depressed, he goes to bed, only to wake from a fitful sleep with a new plot idea in his head. He scrambles to his three-legged desk, strikes a match to light the candle, and begins to scribble. There is no giving up, for good or ill. It’s in his blood. He is crazy. After all, he is a writer.

But once in a while, the writer has to eave the garret and take a break from his confinement within musty walls and long shadows, inhale the sun-filled, clean air, do some Pilates, maybe wash the dishes and pet the dogs, kiss the husband, and watch bad television, preferably reality television because well-written dramas are just too creative for a brain that needs a break.

For me, it's "Grease: You’re the One That I Want?” Who will win? I’m not sure I really care. Still, I watch it faithfully every week. Sometimes, I vote.

Haven't done much writing lately. I've lost the nerve, the verve, fell off the learning curve. (See? This is what television does to you brain.) Truthfully, I've been lazy. I've been too lazy to even read a book. But all this will change soon. My target day is May 1 -- Beltane, a time for new beginnings, the lusty month, a celebration of birth and growth. Until then, I'm working on promotion for my upcoming fantasy, Cake, as well as eating some of the gingerbread variety. With whipped cream. Homemade.

Then the Pilates.