It’s kind of nice to be able to take a breather, to not have a deadline looming. On the other hand, I don’t know what normal people do with their time. I’m pretty much doing nothing (other than the day job). I have time to read, finally…and I don’t know what I want to read.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had stories running constantly in the background of my mind, like a program that’s always running on your computer while you’re using other applications. It’s how I’ve always fallen asleep at night, dreaming up worlds and watching love stories play out in my head. And for the first time, I have no characters in there jostling for my attention. It’s quiet. And weird. Quite possibly, I'm depressed. But I don't really care. (Which is probably a sign that I'm depressed.)
You’d think all this existential contemplation would give me plenty of time to come up with entertaining content for blog posts, but, haha, joke’s on you.
Absent any productive ideas, I’ve been watching a lot of Murder, She Wrote. It’s different now, watching Jessica Fletcher deal with life as a published author. When I watched the show the first time around, it was my dream to be her. (I’m also much closer to Jessica’s age. Today, at Walgreens, the checker asked me if I qualified for the senior discount. Okay, so I‘ve been going gray since I was in my 30s, but at 51, I’m not ready for senior discounts yet, thanks. Or as the lovely lady on the Estroven commercial that plays constantly during my old-lady show, Murder, She Wrote, says, “I’m not ready for elastic waistbands!” Now, where was I? Oh, right; insisting that I’m not old. At any rate, I was buying this at the time, so you be the judge:
I also recently bought hair color to match. But that’s neither here nor there, I’ve been doing that for years.)
So me and the Peep (of course it's "the Peep and I," but I must admit, I like the sound of Me and the Peep; it’s a buddy cop show waiting to be written) are sitting here watching Jessica go to writers’ conferences and work on deadlines and snap at her best friend for interrupting her writing flow and put up with mansplaining dudes who belittle her genre, and I’m just nodding along. This is, in many ways, my life (minus the murders and the mad success). But I am, it seems, living the dream.
It isn’t exactly what I expected, but I edit for a steady paycheck by day and write fantastical romance by night that a few people read, and I think my teenage self would be pleased. Now if I could just snap out of this “four-poster dull torpor” and get back to making things up for strangers, that’d be grand.