It’s difficult, after so much time away, to find anything to write that doesn’t read like one of those family newsletters sent out by deluded mothers that haven’t yet figured out that no one really cares what her family has been up to over the past twelve months.
(Just because it happened to you doesn’t make it interesting.)
When I don’t write for a length of time, the process becomes alien to me. The mechanism by which I once turned anecdotes into a focused story has become rusty, red and jerky. It’s a different part of my brain – the clever sliver, the storytelling nook, the metaphor maker – that helps me write. And when I don’t use it regularly, it fades until eventually I don’t even realize I’m missing it.
I’ve been working a lot, thinking a lot, planning a lot. I’m on the crux of making some key life decisions (oh, Christ) that will change the course of this little path I’ve ambled along for the past year.
On June 13, I hit my one-year sober anniversary. I marked the day with more significance than I marked my own birthday or past wedding anniversaries or the day my mother died. I marked it well. There was no grand celebration, not even a dinner out. And I didn’t tell my friends or remind my family until the day had passed. That’s ok, though, because it’s mine. It’s a day I wanted for myself.
And the Kaiser? He’s great and we just last week returned from a Myrtle Beach adventure: