On Not Writing

Ok, so I guess if I'm going to call myself a writer, I need to write. But there are so many other extenuating circumstances that seem to take me away from writing. I just recently endured 3 surgeries on one hand and 6 months of being in a splint. I didn't endure it well, as my doctor and physical therapist will most likely attest. I don't like being confined like that, and I expect this old carcass of a body to heal much faster, and much better, than it has. I am disgruntled with the whole thing.

So, once the splint came off, I got back to living. Now, when my doctor told me I could resume regular activity, I don't suppose he meant helping roll up tar paper from a roofing job. And I don't suppose he meant dragging big, heavy plastic tarps about. And I don't suppose he meant using weedwhacker, chainsaw and pruning shears and attacking a much overgrown yard. But these are the things that must be done.

To make the medical profession feel better, I did hire Mr Le and associate to do the whacking, pulling and hauling in the front yard. Ok, half of the front yard. I have a very big front yard! As a writer I don't make enough moolah to pay for more than half of the yard. And forget about the back yard, which is three times the size of the front yard.

So, I have been clearing out the debris, opening up the jungle, letting in light. And not just outside, but inside, as well. I shampooed the carpets - one room at a time. I rearranged the living room furniture since I was shampooing anyway. (Thank goodness for those silicone sliders. I can only move the couch and two chairs anyway. Everything else is way too heavy and will be in the same spot until we die. I'm guessing.)

But a weird thing is happening as I clear clutter, both inside and out. My mind is clearing. I find myself writing stories in my head. I haven't put anything down on paper yet, but there are fleeting moments of creativity whilst whacking the yard into submission. So, maybe all of this activity is a good thing. Maybe freeing my hand from the splint, the yard from the overgrowth, has freed my muse to once again be thinking of something other than 'how soon can I be free of this wretched splint'.

Hey, Muse, nice to have you back.