Unintended Two-Year Hiatus Comes to an End. Readers Brace Themselves.
I was a writer until my life interfered with my writing about it. Over the past two years, I haven’t written much of anything other than about 523 clever Facebook statuses or Instagram captions. And maybe a grocery list or two. And of course work-related correspondence and briefs. And there was that one nasty note I put on the windshield of a car that was parked by a douchebag who thought his (clearly leased) BMW deserved to take up two spaces. (The note said something to the effect of, “Thanks, asshole.” I would have continued the vitriol, but decided that less was more, as if to telegraph that I wasn’t going to waste any extra time on the likes of him. I’m sure my words gave him the epiphany he needed and he changed his ways after that.) My few snippets of writing, while sometimes creative and always well-crafted, did nothing to feed my hunger for opening veins at the keyboard. Instead, I starved.
In a nutsack, er, nutshell, between December 2012 and December 2014, you might say that I was a little bit busy. I separated from my husband of 21 years, trepidatiously filed for divorce, moved out (or as my ex-husband called it, “raped” the house—indeed, I took almost everything that wasn’t nailed down, and a few things that were), hurt a lot of feelings, felt guilty, dodged bullets and took a few, lost custody of my dog, changed jobs within the firm in exchange for a regular paycheck, survived a trial by fire as I attempted to practice in an entirely different area of law (that required me to costume myself with suits and restrictive undergarments), moved my office, took a lot of business trips, started a new relationship (at what seemed to others to be a most inconvenient time), tried to save a friend who wasn’t ready to save herself, pulled my hair out over it (not literally, mind you), lost hope, realized that I couldn’t save the world, fell madly in love (at what seemed to others to be a most inconvenient time), had abdominal surgery, traveled some more, changed jobs again, got engaged (at what seemed to others to be a most inconvenient time), moved again, watched my metabolism shut down, moved my office again, realized that I am a hoarder (in a tasteful way, mind you), finalized the divorce, endured the brutal colonoscopy known as the mortgage loan process, bought a house on my own, planned a wedding (that ended up costing more than it should have), got remarried (at what seemed to others to be a most inconvenient time) (in a pub, which is why it was more expensive than I had estimated—mostly because I was drunk when I tipped the waitresses), felt happy for my ex-husband who remarried as well the very next month, watched jaws drop every time I told people all this, moved into the new house with my two teenagers and my new husband and two of his five kids (the older three were on their own, thanks to the military and college), changed my last name (which sounds so much easier than it is), unexpectedly lost my assistant of five years, buried that friendship, cried, tried to maintain my law practice alone, realized again that I couldn’t save the world, went on a two-week vacation in a big expensive rental RV for a priceless 3,000-mile family bonding road trip, settled in to the new home and new routines, found a new assistant, made two mortgage payments for several months until my husband’s house finally sold, suffered through a brief breast cancer scare, and tried to catch my breath at work and at home. (I believe that is the longest sentence I have ever written.) That should cover it. Somehow, over those two years, I managed to gain 20 pounds and age about 10 years. Thank God for happy, well-adjusted children, anti-depressants and cheap wine, and a high credit card limit.
All that to say, I have some great excuses for not having written. Now I’m in a good place. A great place, actually. And ready to hit the keyboard again. The roller coaster’s gears are winding down. I’ve always hated roller coasters, but I believe I navigated this one with amazing aplomb if I do say so myself, especially considering my prematurely advanced age and my occasional hormonal imbalances. Not to mention my comatose metabolism.
So stay tuned for more, and feel free to encourage me, either with praise or derision. I respond well to both. Don’t be surprised if I’m not as prolific as some may hope. And don’t be surprised if what I do write is really sucky. I’m rusty and a whole lot older than I was two years ago.
