So, if you are from the region referred to as the Southern United States or anywhere near Applachia, or better yet, where those two regions meet and become one, you know all about festivals. Typically, they have something to do with some part of the local heritage and are usually held in smaller towns, but there is always carnival food, like deep fried Twinkies and kettle corn. In the small towm where I grew up, it was Court Day, which began as a result of only having one day a year where court trials were held for the region and public hangings took place. Now it’s known for the ability to buy weapons, especially hand guns and rifles. This festival actually takes place in Mt. Sterling, Kentucky and I grew up outside of Mt. Sterling in Jeffersonville, Kentucky, which many people confuse with Jeffersonville, Indiana because it is so close to Kentucky. Anyway, my point is that today my focus was on friends and this festival. And apparently on walking because I broke my previous step record by quite a few steps. Today I ended up with over 20,000 steps, but proior to that, I had just over 12,000. Yup, just a few more steps. So that has kept me away from the blog and, really any social media at all, except for when I accidentally created a group conversation on Facebook while I was walking with a friend. Please don’t ask me how I did it because I have no idea, but it happened. If you need a witness, refer to my friend, Ginny. She had to tell me and to top it off, I couldn’t delete it before people began getting quite a few messages from my pocket because the small town of Mt. Sterling, Kentucky only has one AT&T network cell phone tower and there were so many people in this tiny towm today that the cell service was all wonky and I was nowhere near wifi. So, yeah, that was my drama for the day. Feel free to laugh because I sure did.
It’s that time again… lunch time. Normally I only give myself 30 minutes because I leave early on Monday’s to take my son, Thatcher to his occupational therapy appointment. But today is different. Everything about today has been different. Monday, OT was cancelled due to a paperwork issue, imagine that. Then I came to work and there was a problem with the computer that is the powerhouse of a three computer network. It’s a small company. Just before I went to the back for my lunch, I heard my boss say that this is all because it is Friday the Thirteenth. That is superstitous, but I understand why she’d say that. And now, because I have my full lunch hour, I am sitting in the room that we refer to as the conference room and wondering what I should write about today. The muse just doesn’t want to be here today. Honestly, I’d rather be somewhere else and resting, too, but that is not an option. Bills must be paid, despite my wish to spend my days doing nothing but writing and advocating for Thatcher and other people like him. He has been my world since the day that I found out I was going to have him, perhaps even before then. I’ve been told not to consume myself with my child’s diagnosis, or in his case, diagnoses. How does one do that, though? How does a parent, any parent not consume themselves with the best interests of their child(ren)? How do you separate who they are as a person from the diagnoses that make them who they are? I’d rather try my best and push for what is best for Thatcher. Now, if only I could find the muse and the time to write at the same time because the muse and time often despise each other and prefer to be separated.
I have gone back and forth, back and forth. I have known since I was in middle school, around the age of 12 that I wanted to spend a great deal of my life writing. Maybe it was my way of dealing with my past and childhood trauma. I’m not sure, but I know that the muse pushes me away and then pulls me back and holds on for dear life and lately, I just hadn’t even been in the mood to write. Was it because I had little time to do so? In the past I have made time to write, so why did I suddenly stop? Perhaps it’s that my li fe is so much different now than when I was twelve, or twenty, or even twenty-five. I am now thirty-one years old and I am discovering that what I want out of this life is to forget about what I “should” do and focus on what is best for me.
I have been talking about this book that I wanted to get published for far too long and though I have submitted my manuscript to a few places, it seems that my manuscript just hasn’t found the right home. Or I haven’t found it the right home? So I am jumping off the proverbial cliff here and putting myself out there for the world to see. Perhaps, if some kind agent sees me and likes what they see in my writing, the best home for my manuscript might just find me. So here I am, jumping off. I can feel the cool desert mountain air on my skin. I can see the rock solid bottom coming closer to me. I know that with any luck what so ever, my parachute will open and I will be lifted up, gently floating in the air.
Here I am. I refuse to be ignored or forgotten. I write because I am. I live, breath, feel writing. It is who I am and who I will always be.