A long season of depression appears to be be reaching a conclusion. I’ve little to show for the last few months, and I have a great number of unfinished obligations. At this point, they’re almost broken promises. But if it’s writing or fiction related, it’s likely I’ve dropped the ball on it. This means critiques that have waited for months, stories that have barely progressed, and books that cry out for additional editing.
I’ve joked that I’m retired. I’ve joked that I should have chosen to get into carpentry instead of writing. Or been a microbrewer. Anything that could’ve proven more useful or worthwhile to others.
People like cabinets. People like microbrews.
But some people like the stories I’ve done. And, to be honest, I like a lot of the stories I’ve done. And I have a few others that I’m not leaving until I’ve fully crafted.
So I’m turning the lights back on. I’m firing up the machines. I’m sitting back down.
Fingers on keys.
And I’m going back to Daukherville.