Coming into June after the madness of May, I’m not sure what to say. Tom, my wonderful talented irritating artist husband has been in the hospital for more than a week. He’s on a first name basis with the techs who draw blood and with the great people down in Nuclear Medicine. If he hadn’t been glowing from the jaundice he would be from the x-rays. They’ve established he has a blockage, they just haven’t identified it. At this rate we’re going to be declaring it as a dependent.
I’ve found I’m not one of those driven people who can write no matter what. I try, and I’ve been getting down scenes and plots but nowhere near the output I had before. The house is just too darned quiet. I’ve finished up my blog tour with a visit to the Book Boost, which will be up a bit later. Tom reminds his nurses his wife has written a book, and hands out cards with the cover and links to order. “My Killer, My Love” is doing well even when I can’t steal time to promote it.
Whatever the diagnosis we can deal with it. Ranting, raving, hair pulling is non productive and has never cured the common cold much less anything else. Certainly this, along with the natural disasters around the world, has brought so much into perspective. It’s not how many times you’re knocked down, it’s how many times you get up and keep moving forward.
I can’t say enough good about the support system we have developed for each other as writers of relationship books. We dance in joy for each other and we all join in virtual hugs. We just rock