A difficult but relieving decision

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Over two hundred hearts awaiting their rightful homes within a stitching WIP.

Just want to note that despite all my wishing to write something new soon, I just can't commit to it. Too much is going on, both in prepping books for release as well as life, to assume I can pull a completed draft outta my backside.

Last night I started stitching my Mr. Carter quilt. Not that evening stitching interferes with morning writing. But I got a little maudlin, almost teary, in sorting the hearts on the sofa by relative colour. The photo above doesn't begin to tell their stories, wondering what the future would hold. I assumed I'd be writing as I cut fabrics, basted shapes, stitched together jewels. Maybe even last night I thought, "Yup, gonna start a new book soon!"

At some point this morning, reality kicked in. The reality of, "If I plan to publish two novels by the end of April, where in the world am I supposed to find time to write one?" That's a pretty sobering reality, both for the joy of two books heading into the wild blue yonder and just when in the hell am I gonna pen something new???

The relief I felt upon making that choice was palpable. Honest. Disappointing but heartfelt, which solidified my decision, as well as confirming that yes, I am creeping up in age and I don't have the seemingly endless energies of even a few years ago. A few years ago, well.... A few years ago I was barely scratching out the first written work since Mom died. And that was like pulling teeth, making me wonder if I could write. The Enran Chronicles blew me away for how freely those stories emerged, which made me think, "Oh boy, I am BACK!" That was two years ago, well, eighteen months thereabouts in the middle of the noveling free-for-all. A good whirlwind, which makes this pull-back even more bittersweet, in that just because I went whole-hog in 2023, 2025 is another animal entirely.

It's the year of the snake, in more than the Chinese zodiac. And my dearth of writing has more to do with what's in my head, heart, and soul. It's not the time to write, for whatever reason. It's time to stitch hearts into a quilt. It's time to read books to prep for other novels' releases. It's time to breathe deeply and accept what I can't change but endeavor to alter all that's in my wheelhouse, which starts with my own expectations for myself. Huh. That's...fascinating.

That's the nature of creeping toward fifty-nine. Wrestling with personal truths. Acquiescing to what I can truly accomplish and not grousing (too loudly). Maybe a little grimace, then I move on. Story ideas rarely slip from my gray matter, part of my problem. That novel isn't going anywhere. Patience, I hear Future Me whisper. Have patience and stay the course. Stay the course, I mumble under my breath, nodding reluctantly. Stay the course and....

Be grateful. 'Nuff said.

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