Sometimes you just want to go home.
I've grown. Somewhat. And even in the areas where I've regressed a bit, or lots, at least I have the teensiest bit of insight, which, if I may add, was costly.
I have started another Amanda Bell Brown mystery and was blogging for therapy on something called the everyday pleasures blog on Wordpress. But none of those were "home." Risking revealing my literary schizophrenia I confess that I'm working on a memoir, too. And guess what? Something has to give.
So I'm letting go of everyday pleasures, integrating the work was doing there, here. I'm making a schedule of time to work on the mystery, and I'm making my way back home.
This is home. And walking in I see the dust. The disarray. I see the debris I carelessly left behind. I see the junk I should have gotten rid of but didn't. And I don't care about any of that. I'm home. Everything is familiar. Home.
It may be shabby, but it's mine.
I feel like I've walked into the pages of a kind of reverse Goodnight Moon. And I'm saying hello to my goodies: hello, If I Were Her post. Hello, Blue Tuxedo Man. Hello, I Loved A Boy.
And my dear writing space, confessional, and ranting container greets me in return. Hello, Ragamuffin Diva, you dear girl. You crazy, crazy, dear. Welcome home. It's been way too long.