But still, I was struck all week with the feeling of the passage of time. How did that happen? How did the little baby who used to literally move me to tears by simply looking at him in the morning light get old enough that I had to watch him walk away from me with a brave look on his face into a building where parents are not supposed to enter. (Yes that is the rule, for safety)
He did it. He was fine, happy even, and I was a nervous wreck to the point that I actually gave myself stomach pains.
Going through this has done a funny thing to my writing. For the last 3 days, I have not been able to write my usual output. I seem to be unable to lose myself in my story. It's like my muse is making me stick this out, to get through this time, and not go away to the safety of wolf shifters.
So I'm going to wait it out. Wait for the right time to come back for me to feel the stirrings in my mind of a new story to tell.
Best to all of you