A Dry Spell

There is nothing to writing.

All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.

                                   Ernest Hemingway

On those rare occasions when I have more then three unscheduled minutes in a day, I think about writing and that I should be doing it. If not working on a novel, then at the very least I should be writing a blog post. 

But I don't know what to write about anymore.

For a couple of years there, every day of my life brought some new level of ridiculous drama and I had what seemed to be a never-ending supply of ideas.

Here's the interesting thing: I still have a never-ending supply of uncertainty in my life, but what I have now is someone who makes me happy in spite of the drama rather than someone who at times made me incredibly happy but was also a perpetual font of drama.

In the last 8 months since the drama-font and I split, I have dealt and will probably always be dealing with my daughter's mental illness. My divorce was final. I lost my job. My childhood home was leveled by an F-5 tornado. 

And I met someone new and wonderful who somehow makes me believe everything will be okay.

It's nauseating, really, the two of us. Two old people, kind of crazy about each other, hanging around in bars, hanging on each other in bars...  I'm sure the patrons are as grossed out by our behavior as they would be if we were their parents.

And we could be their parents. We're that old.

Maybe there's a story in there, but it'd probably induce nausea. 

Hell, what do I care? I'm old. If I want to write nauseating feel-good stories, then I will. 

But, ewww....  the thought of that even kind of makes me want to puke.

We'll see.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert