My first dilemma was when I discovered I didn’t own a pair of pantyhose without a snag. I changed my outfit four times. Either I’ve lost weight or my clothes have magically stretched and grown on the hangers over the last five months. When I sat down to apply my make-up I found all the jars and bottles of potions had dried up and deserted me. Somehow I made it out the door in time.
Driving down the road it occurred to me that this drive was a mirror of life. If I blow through the stop signs, I risk a terrible collision. The yield and merge signs say, take it slow and look around at the stream of humanity you are about to join. Choices present themselves at every fork.
The interview went well. I slid back into the place in my head where I had questions and answers, where I knew people who knew people, I could smile with ease and feel akin to the situation. The months of snow and solitude melted and I felt strong, confident, and ready to dance this waltz.
My novels are narrative memoirs. A chance to look back and observe the choices I made and the lessons those choices taught me. Why would I have to give up my writing? Wasn’t I still on that highway? Couldn’t my choices merely require me to readjust my speed and route to my destination? Why would I stop a life of journaling those frost heaves which insist on my attention and make me reduce my haste?
Later, I met one of my editors. We met at our usual Starbucks and she presented me with a bulging folder of marked up sheets. She doesn’t know me outside of the project so it is always interesting to see the reactions of this particular reader. All of her edits are precise and though she is careful not to change my voice or tone, I love it when I stumble on a smiley face or comment that tells me she is enjoying the journey as much as the work.
Two roads converged yesterday. The exact destination is unknown, the vague spot on the map that says “You can do what you love and survive” will require careful adjustments to the route. Watch for the signs.