The pending post-it list never lets up.
Words get written, exploding on the screen in gazillions; not one of them is for my Work In Progress (WIP).
The cell phone rings intermittently--morning, , night. Regular work briefings. Emergency calls to "please accommodate" new work within tight deadlines.
The calendar polar bear gives me quiet, understanding company.
Work doesn't suck. It brings in money, much needed for survival. But...
In trying to resuscitate my bank account, I seldom find time for the joys that filled my inside. I miss visiting my blog pals. The mind yearns for those daily doses of laconic, exquisite, epigrammatic cyber inscriptions. The heart longs to go and say a hello to the authors of those inscriptions, dear friends, all.
The WIP unassumingly positions itself at the bottom of the "work" heap, not pestering to be paid attention to. "I will wait," it says "for the moment you are ready to pick me up with love, not because you have to, but because it will bring joy to the spirit. I know you will, no worries. Do tend to the ailing coffers first."
Here is someone trying to find her feet in the land of freelancers. That's all that keeps me away from here lately. Trust me, I am still...
At Home, Writing.