This is not a sob story

just a bit of whining

miserable old woman

I have sat for two weeks without writing, the longest dead stretch in years.  I don’t know what to do with myself. I make rice pudding and don’t eat it. I finished watching The Bear. I have been writing during the two years since Chuck died, but it wasn’t turning into a book.  I could not write about how sick he was, how he would start a sentence, then stop, holding his head in his hands. Ammonia in his brain. Liver disease. Maybe I should have, but  he isn’t here to say (Go ahead, I’ll be dead anyway). But even so, I wouldn’t. Is that what the tiny book is lacking? Should that have been the thread that held it together?

It’s a strange feeling, not waking up engaged and in gear, because I’ve been writing every day for two years. No,  twenty years.  Where is the curious part of me? The part that is my own best company?

It is beginning to get dark earlier now, although it’s only the tail end of August, and my room is filled with the sound of crickets outside, or maybe not crickets. Maybe they are tree frogs. Is there such a thing? Did I make it up? Easy to find out, but I haven’t googled to find out if some frogs actually live in trees.  Ok. I googled them. They do. And I love the tiny beautiful creatures. But I’m still not writing. Loving them will have to do for now.