Fits, starts, and restarts

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Two examples from two different skeins of yarn where breaks in the colour scheme occur. Very indicative of my current mood, lol.

This is a funny novel, for all the hemming and hawing going on. Never before have I written, then purged scenes with somewhat of an abandon. I truly don't know what to make of it, chalking it up to age, grieving, the weirdly long winter (even though it's spring), or my new computer keyboard, which is small but adequate in a strangely truncated manner.

I'm enjoying the writing, but the story keeps veering off on tangents I'm not comfortable with, in that too much is being revealed too soon, bleh. Future and Past Me's are steering clear of this manuscript, perhaps because what came before it was so out of the blue, so cathartic, and this prequel is just as outta my backside as any I've ever written. But I am writing, let me restate that, despite restarting a chapter here and there. I'm not getting much else accomplished, other than some crocheting, but that too has been a little irksome, what with skeins being cut then tied within the colour charm, meh. One was quite the leap, another to the same hue. I like this Lion Brand Mandala yarn, but I wouldn't use it again due to colour schemes being rudely interrupted, sad face.

I truly wonder how much my mini-malaise is due to age. I'll be fifty-seven next month, which when written down looks quite....Not ancient certainly, but I'm not the girl I used to be. Perhaps I need to embrace this reality, that of a woman slowly creeping up on sixty. Not that numbers are the be-all-end-all of a person's worth, but let's not kid one another; I am not forty, forty-five, or even forty-nine. Getting over this cold seems to be taking AGES. I'm grateful for the lengthier daylight, but spring seems a long ways away. I appreciate the word count, even if I delete a ton of it, then start again. Life feels very one step forward two steps sideways, which is probably better than two steps backwards, but a good few feet one after the other without any deviation would be AWESOME. But this year feels like one thrown askew, out of time, on its own, far flung away. I feel far from my center, even if much seems per usual.

(And then I silently muse to myself; is this what Future Me contends with 24/7? Many I love are dead, the body really balks at the simplest chores, reminders on my phone barely keep me on task. Hmm. Not sure what I think about that.)

[And does Past Me even notice how Present Me isn't the same? Did I, long ago, take a good hard look at where I was at that moment, whatever that moment happened to be, thinking Dude, you're not getting any younger. Better step it up now before you really lose your marbles and the ability to throw them.]

Maybe I just need to allow Present Me this short stint of the blues, or whatever this is. I'm writing. I'm about over this cold. It's sunny out right now. There's sorbet in the freezer. Yum, sorbet. I think it's time for a break.

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