On Why I Haven't Been Writing This Month by Sorchia DuBois

Sometimes it's hard to write. Life happens and things get hectic. Sometimes--that's an excuse, but for me, the last part of 2018 isn't turning out to be particularly productive as far as writing goes for some pretty good reasons.

For one thing, I made my first trip out of the US. The trip took me to Iceland, Ireland (only for a layover,) and then to Berlin. I'm writing this from an apartment in what used to be East Berlin and that is mind blowing for someone who grew up on Cold War movies and books. Trouble is I haven't had time to do much sightseeing because of the other event--the one that called me to Germany.

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter delivered my first grandchild--Lily Ada Kay--a life-altering presence who guarantees adventure and excitement for years to come. She's taken up most of my sightseeing time--and honestly, that's just fine. She was two weeks late and the labor wasn't easy. Then she got a little infection and had to stay in the hospital for a few extra days. It was nothing serious, but a round of antibiotics for a newborn is a scary thing for the new parents and the granny with an overactive imagination. All is well, and Lily is at home now, gaining weight, and getting all the attention.

So--no--I haven't gotten much writing done in the past couple of months.

The last week of my stay might allow for a few side trips to a museum and a park or two.  But I'll be heading home in a few days--another grueling day of navigating airports and car rentals and finally a long drive back to my house in the woods. It will be a steady dive back into seclusion--Crowded airports in Berlin to St. Louis and then a de-escalation from ten lanes to four to two and finally to the narrow dirt road I fondly call a driveway. Back to the cats and the owls and the peace of an autumn in the Ozarks.

Then, after a cup of tea--maybe warmed by a splash of Laphroaig--and an afternoon getting reacquainted with my husband, my cats, my house, my woods--I'll sit down at the computer and write. I already feel a backlog of words like a flooded river temporarily clogged by a dam of debris. Once the dam breaks,  the words will spill out in no particular order making no particular sense until the water runs clear again.

But you know what they say--even if you aren't writing, you're writing. Everything counts as writing fodder and next month, I'll share a more coherent account of the adventure. Right now, I've got a baby to look at.