I've been quiet on the Internet. There's so much to watch and listen to and read, it's very easy for me to be quiet. I'm also quiet because this past winter, I decided it was time to confront certain truths about my health -- even if it meant I turned into one of those people who can't shut up about my own self-improvement. And that's exactly what happened. I'm now intolerable offline. Why put it online?
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I've been looking around the house for a purple spiral notebook. It has an essay in it called "Why I Hate Jason Mraz" and a draft of a story about a woman who gets plastic surgery. I mostly want the essay, but the story draft would be nice to have too. I found a purple notebook a couple of days ago and rejoiced, but it was the wrong purple spiral notebook. The notebook I found has pages and pages of notes and scenes which eventually led to "At Grayfield Keep." I wish I worked in one format, in one place. I hate how I always have to trick myself in order to get down what needs to be gotten down. Times like this, it totally bites me.
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Since February I've acquired eight new scars. The sandals I bought over the weekend still don't hurt my feet, even though they're cute. I'm teaching again this fall. If you push the button for pellets every five minutes, the button is going to break. Summer remains an enigma. Since I can't find Jason Mraz, maybe I will start writing about James Connolly again. Maybe not.
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I never know what to say when people ask how I'm feeling. Lately, my answer has been "pretty good." This doesn't sit right with me because it's also what I say when people ask the same question, thinking I'm pregnant. So, I add a detail. That creates the additional task of determining whether someone wants a nice detail (I can do everything, but I try not to lift heavy things!) or an icky one (The incision still isn't totally closed!)
Here's another detail: I went to the surgeon today. He always smiles to himself a little when he walks into the examination room. My appendectomy was really messy and complicated, and he totally aced it. Every once in a while, I catch myself with the same smile when I reread paragraphs. Not very often at all, but often enough to recognize it on someone else. So, that's something.
