Feast or famine.

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.It's been so long since I blogged that I've forgotten how to write a sentence.

Oh, wait. There's one. Never mind.

Hello. There are some things going on. I've been in Cleveland for the past week, mingling with the world's sweetest people, all of whom were nearly twice my age; I met the Knight's parents, who are older than my grandparents; the Knight and I took his 12-year-old to see the new Twilight movie (don't judge); I'm headed home ("home," to Kansas City) for the Thanksgiving holiday tomorrow. Lots of travel. And people. And eating — dear. GOD. EATING. And not enough sleep, not nearly enough.

There's one thing that definitely isn't going on: the novel ("novel"). It's been tabled, indefinitely. Writing about myself — a version of myself I'm actually not thrilled to recall — proved to be a little more taxing than I'd expected. I thought I could handle it. Thought I was past it, mostly. Thought the catharsis of getting it down would outweigh the pain of extracting it from the recesses of my brain. No. It exhausted me, left me feeling hung over and empty. Life imitates art when it's reliving life, I guess. I really knew it was time to stop when I didn't like my protagonist despite the fact that she was me. So I put it away. Zipped the little laptop into its happy polka-dot case. I spent a weekend actually living instead of reliving, collecting experiences to write about later instead of sitting inside, writing. I put the novel out of my head. The bad dreams stopped. And I was happy.

Spending hours and hours doing something that made me so crazy calls for a serious attitude adjustment. So I've not been too worried about writing lately. It'll always be there when I'm ready. And if that story of mine really needs to be told, it will be. Eventually.