I’ve been hit by a case of the lazies, and it’s only January 4. So this is my announcement that as soon as I post this, I’m going back to editing.
In the meantime, here’s the scoop: I’ve been successfully larded up by the holidays, so will now go into anti-hibernation mode. This includes the writing schedule. For Christmas, one of my little birdies flew back into the nest with her boyfriend. Visitors are a high-caloric time suck. Now that they have returned to San Francisco, I can get busy.
I had a semi-depression on the day before New Years Eve. That’s because I decided to visit the Facebook page of one of my writing friends.
I knew something was up. He hadn’t felt very well throughout the spring and summer. He was like me, posting a couple of things a day on Facebook, then going back to working on his novel or his real life pursuits. All of a sudden, I noted a lack of posts. But I don’t spend much time on the Book of Face, so I figured we were both busy.
Actually, something in the back of my mind scared me from searching further. Something ominous. I’ve always prided myself on my intuition, but this premonition was uncomfortable.
This past Sunday, I decided to look him up, and that’s when I learned the bad news: my internet writing friend had passed away.
His other Facebook friends left glowing accolades, ones that my friend deserved. Because he was not only a writer, a blogger, and a published author, he was also a doctor, a husband, and a father. He played golf and played bluegrass, both fairly well. He possessed a sense of being that’s rare to find. And although he passed away much too young (just 3 years older than I am), he lived a life that can only be described as overflowing.
We couldn’t be more different, he a country doctor in North Carolina and me a sassy Jill of All Trades in the Rust Belt, but I think he liked me. I certainly liked him. He gave me tips on everything, the writing, the music, the golf, the child-rearing, even on the tenuous life of the self-employed.
As I scrolled down the wonderful wishes, all I could think was thank goodness he lived to see his book being published.
I was sad and sick to my stomach for two days. Would I ever see my own book being published by a Real Live Publishing House? I mean before I die. Or was I destined to exit without seeing my goals being met?
I wallowed in my loss for forty-eight hours.
Then I took out my manuscript and started to edit.
