And here it is, February already.
A month has passed since my last post but it doesn't seem that long. I suspect it has something to do with working (long hours in a secured location on secure things, so I have no real internet access) and trying to get the house and parent in order. I've succeeded with the latter, but not necessarily the former.
It's been a long time since I've worked in a scheduled environment - meaning, every duty is required and has a short deadline, as in by the end of the day; no slacking off here.
Writing fiction - for me - is a butt in the chair and write, or research, or edit; that's it. I don't need benchmarking, or report status, or a number of other things I can't talk about. (Which is weird, since I'm working in a public affairs area.)
I'm looking at this time of turmoil - and it is when you're yanked out of a nice, safe, comfortable environment - as a break from all things writing and reading. I doubt I'll be back at it until March.
It could be sooner, given the story ideas floating around, rather than the lists of things to do. Some days, it feels like a day off to do something... that doesn't involve others and their needs, seems like a long way off. Obligations come first.
It's not all bad: I heard a small child today, in the book section of a department store. He sighed heavily, and then said: "Mum, I so need a book!"
Made me smile and my world settled down a little bit more.