Ear to Ear

Yes, I have a smile on my face the size of Kansas. I am grinning from ear to ear. Starting on Friday, I get to do something I really love. And the better part? I don’t have to do the parts I don’t love, because I have someone working with me who loves those parts as much as I don’t.

I was telling a dear friend tonight, I do not believe I lead a charmed life. Far from it. I have had more than my share of hardship, heartache, really tough times, times that I didn’t think I’d get through, to be honest with you. But, I’ve also had more than my share of good times too. 

I think I have a pretty good idea at this point in my life of what is important and what is not. Doing the right thing, even when it’s very hard to do, treating people with respect and kindness, telling the people you love and appreciate how much you do, taking the time to connect with my family and my friends . . . those are the driving forces in my life. And I have to tell you, to have that validated, over and over today, was heartwarming. 

I am grateful, thankful, appreciative, excited, a little nervous, but not really that nervous. I’ve got this. Right? 

Absent Even When Present

I woke up today to an email from a friend, someone I’ve spent time with recently, but didn’t realize how absent I’ve been even when I’m physically present.

I felt so disconnected from my friend, and I didn’t understand it. It just seemed as though our conversations weren’t taking place between the two of us. Rather than me saying something and my friend responding, I was speaking, my friend was speaking, but the two conversations didn’t have anything to do with the each other.

I talked about it in etiquette class last night. How sometimes rather than listening when we’re in the midst of a conversation, we’re planning what we’re going to say next.

I gave the kids a topic, football (easy this week, right? Especially if you live near Denver). They were tasked with starting a conversation, answering the person who spoke to you, then turning and starting another conversation with the person on the other side of them. Even with so few kids, it was amazing how off-topic the conversation got. When it reached me, I answered the young woman next to me, and then said, "What’s your favorite color?" to the person on my left. He opened his mouth to speak and then said, "Wait. What?" Good for him to catch the abrupt change before he spoke, however, it was clear he was planning on what he was going to say, rather than focusing on what I was saying.

I’ve been guilty of this the last two weeks. Things have been so hectic, so crazy, that I haven’t been present, even when I’m physically so. I’ve accused those around me of being disconnected, when all the while, it’s been me. And when it was pointed out to me, I was stunned.

I’ve been a lousy friend, but I plan to change that. I’ve been a lousy wife and mother, expecting life to just continue, whether I was fully engaged or not. I plan to change that too. It’s amazing how a situation can change when I just pay attention, give attention, be present. The emptiness I’ve been feeling dissipates, because they emptiness that was within me, was of my own making.

Nearly Impossible Decision

Every morning, just about, I’m faced with the same dilemma, whether to start the day out writing, and likely write all day . . . or, do the other things that need to be done first.

Today, the other things won out, over and over again. So here it is, 2:00pm. I have to pick Frankie up at 2:40. Etiquette class starts at 4:45, so by the time I sit down to write, it’ll be at least 6:00pm. I can probably get a good two or three hours of writing in, but nothing like yesterday when I spent the whole day writing.

The good thing about working on other stuff, is that now some of it is done. I seem to have a neverending list of things to do, so it’ll never all be done. And the other thing is, I’m not so easily distracted. When I’m writing, I’m easy to distract. Which sucks sometimes.

Today it was almost 1:30 before I thought about a decision I’m waiting on. I expect a no, I anticipate the possibility that it could be a yes, and my assumption is the decision has to be made no later than the end of the week. I almost don’t want to know the outcome. There are pros and cons on both sides.

I would love to fill my brain with lots of wonderful stories, dump them out on my computer . . . and then smile when I go back and read them. Fanciful life right? And I suppose to the full-time writer, there is a certain monotony that eventually sinks in. 

I love the other work I do, and I would miss it if I stopped. I suppose that’s why I do so many different things. No monotony, no tedium, just a neverending sense that there is something that I should be doing, and I’m not.

Maybe I Need a New List

Yesterday morning, as we drove the two-plus hour drive from Monument to Ft. Collins, my friend Deanne and I spent a lot of time talking about music. She knows light years more than I do about the technical aspects of music, and the music industry. But when it comes to new music, I’ve become the person she relies on to keep her current.

A song by Airborne Toxic Event came on and I told her that if one, I ever played the lottery, and two, I ever won it (hard to do when you don’t do number one), I would immediately hop on a plane and see whatever their next concert was. They are, after all, my favorite band, and I’ve never seen them live.

I think I said something about it being on my bucket list. At that point, the conversation swerved to how I was too young to have a bucket list. In the back of my mind I thought, but the first thing on the list is seeing a bald eagle in the wild. I started to say it outloud, but by that point the conversation had moved in another direction, and it seemed off-topic.

Less than ten minutes later, I looked at a tree alongside the I-25, and saw a white head on top of a brown body. I slowed as much as was safe on that stretch of highway. I looked, and looked, and looked. I’m farsighted, so I could really see it. And sure enough, it was a bald eagle. 

Given that I had just been thinking about it, I teared up. Sunglasses hid what probably would’ve mortified my son, sitting in the back seat with his girlfriend who was spending her first day with us. I couldn’t hold my excitement though, I had to talk about it. So I did. Deanne was incredulous that I had never seen one in the wild before, of course, she goes to Alaska every year, so she’s probably seen many. 

I have to admit, that this morning, writing about it, I am tearing up again. It was a big damn deal to me. Whether it would be to anyone else is beside the point. No one else matters, it was my bucket item. 

I have a friend, who I’ve known since middle school, who asked me a few weeks ago if I still had premonitions. I asked him why he asked me that question. He went on to inform me that he and I had conversations about it, back in middle school. At first, I thought he might be teasing me about it. I had no recollection of the conversation, or any conversation with him really. But then I remembered something that happened with my grandmother and yes, that was probably something I had talked to him about.

Whether it was premonition yesterday or simple coincidence, it doesn’t matter. 

It did get me thinking about things I want to do that I haven’t yet. There isn’t a lot on my list. There are places I want to travel to, certainly, hundreds probably if I sat down and made a list. But in terms of things I want to do, there aren’t many left. 

The biggest, of course, was writing a book. I can check that off in spades. There are concerts I want to see, again, I cannot imagine the length of that list if I actually wrote it out . . . on the other hand, I’m doing a pretty good job of tackling the hypothetical list this year and last! 

As is typical, if I brought this question to Doug, he would immediately come up with a slew of things he’d suggest, that’s just how he is, and only one of a hundred (thousand) reasons why I love him. He knows me, he’d immediately be able to think of countless things that would bring me joy. 

I have a good life, and I appreciate it. I celebrate it. And I try not to ever take it for granted. Do I have gray hair? Yep, and I earned every single one of them that Shelly works hard to cover up every six weeks or so. My body isn’t always willing to do the things my mind thinks it should, but I rarely let that hold me back. I am not the kind of person who focuses on the negative, I am an eternal optimist. So . . . time for a new list, new adventures, new experiences. If you have any suggestions for me, I’m all ears.

Sixteen Pages

I wrote sixteen of the hardest pages I’ve ever written yesterday. In the story, the husband of a secondary character is killed in Afghanistan when a car bomb detonates near his convoy during a combat advisory mission with Afghan National Army Commandos. 

What I wrote is based on something that actually happened. Recently. It directly touched the lives of people I am very, very close to, and what I wrote is everything they went through from the time they were notified, until the day at the cemetery.

I wrote it out, but I’m going to go back and edit, to blend more of the real story into the book’s story, but I’ll keep what I wrote and give it to my friend to keep.

Doug came in at one point to talk to me about something, and I was sobbing. Of course, he immediately asked what was wrong, and when I turned around, he realized I was writing. I tried to tell him a little bit about what I had just written, but I couldn’t speak. The harder I tried, the harder I cried.

When my friend and I talked about my writing this, one of the things she said was that she wanted people to know, to feel it, to realize this war results in loss. Loss of life. Loss of lives of people we love. People who matter. People who would’ve continued to make a difference in the world, had their life not been cut so tragically short. 

As I listened to her yesterday, and wrote notes, both of us would tear up, sometimes unable to speak. I am grateful to her for sharing this with me. I was honored to write it.

Nine ::Uninterrrupted:: Hours of Sleep

Sleep. It’s something I’ve fought for most of my life. Doug and I were out for dinner with friends who were visiting Colorado from California, it was less than a year after we moved here. And they said, "Has Heather really changed since you moved?" 

"Yes," he answered. "She sleeps now."

Part of our reason for relocating was so I would slow down, not work as much, and sleep. I didn’t keep my promise to do so. In fact, the friends who were visiting brought art to show in our gallery.

In March of 2007, I undertook yet another new business, right before the country’s fall into the worst economic climate since the great depression. Brilliant. That business morphed into something that required even more work, when we added a wine bar to the art gallery. Again, genius.

Seven years later, I am that much older, plus some, given the stress that business brought. But I am also wiser. While I still own three businesses, and write, and take on more work than I should, and volunteer more than I should, I do (I swear) sleep. And I play too, a lot. Some may say too much. But those who do, don’t know how long I went without playing. I’m catching up, because the majority of my play is with my family, and they went too long without me wanting to play.

I was exhausted last night, and so I slept. Nine beautiful uninterrupted hours of sleep. I love my husband, very much, but . . . enough said. I woke this morning ready to take on the world, as I do most days. But today, it’s with the energy required to do it.

I have meetings today, something I usually dread. I’d much rather be working than meeting, but they are necessary to what I do. One of those meetings involves research for the book I’m writing currently, so that will feel more like fun than work.

I recognize lack of sleep when my children don’t enough, and I’m working harder at recognizing what it looks like when I don’t get enough. And what it looks like when I do.

It is Never Darkest Before Dawn

I cannot say that I don’t understand what might drive a person to take their own life. I have been in a place where I didn’t think I could keep putting one foot in front of the other, but somehow, I did. If I hadn’t, the world would not have Frank or Beckett, and I would’ve missed out on more joy that I can put words to.

Each time I hear of someone taking their life, there is a crack in my heart that grows deeper. It is especially hard when it is someone young, because it is then you wish you could show them a newsreel of the incredible things life would’ve had in store for them, had they only been able to make it through one more night, face one more dawn.

This morning I heard not of a young person, but someone closer to my age, older. I do not know what led him to make this decision, but my heart hurts regardless. I can picture him so clearly. I can remember conversations we had, about art. I remember distinctly the last time I saw him.

As I drove Frank to school, Prince’s When Doves Cry came on the radio, and the pink that coats the mountains on the front range in the morning grew deeper. I held it together until I dropped Frank at the front door of Palmer Ridge, and then the tears started to flow. Not just for this man, but for the terrible loss that comes with this decision. 

It is never, ever as bad as it may seem. Never. There is always more joy, more sunrises, more everything. Life is filled with lots of bad, but the cream always rises to the top.

Do You Want to Write a Book?

I know I’ve posted on this subject before, but I’m going to do it again anyway. Every so often someone asks me about writing. They say they’ve thought about it, or they’ve always wanted to try it, or they have a particular story they want to tell.

My advice is always the same: just do it. Sit down, right now, or as soon as you can, and start writing. I was one of you . . . I always wanted to write a book. I still am that person, because there are still books I want (and need) to write. 

In the past I edited and designed a couple hundred books, being around that many books and authors, made my yearning to do it that much stronger.

Less than two years ago, I started writing my first book. 

Was it hard? YES! Damn hard. 
Did it take discipline? Yep. Every day.
Did I learn anything? I learn something very single time I sit down to write.
What if it isn’t any good? How will you know until you try? What if it IS good? 
How do you get started? Just sit down and write.

I’m not saying it’s easy, it isn’t. But the hardest part is getting started. I have NEVER experienced the kind of joy I get from writing, in any other thing I’ve done professionally. It literally fills me with happiness. It consumes me. It makes every other part of my life better because I love it so much, but also because I look at everything differently since I started writing. Everything.

Writing makes me laugh, it makes me cry, it makes me feel. It allows me to feel. Believe me, I am NOT writing the next great American novel. I write sweet little stories that I love. 

And my goal? For people to love reading them, or want to read them, or feel something when they read them. That’s it. 

Would I like to sell a bjillion copies? Sure. And that was my goal when I started writing: New York Times Best Seller. 

Now, it doesn’t matter. One person. That’s all that matters. If one person tells me they loved the book, or liked it, or something in it made them angry, or cry, or made them happy, or made them care in any way . . . my God, what could feel better than to hear that?

So my advice to you, if you want to write a book, is please . . . just sit down and start writing. Write what you know. You have good stories, you know you do. You’ve told them, and people were interested in hearing them. You’ve probably told those stories more than once. So instead of telling them again, write them. Write one. You will not believe how amazing it will feel when you finish it.

PBR

I had a chance to go to the Professional Bull Riders Touring Pro Division finals at the National Western Stock Show last night. I was given the tickets, and they were amazing. We sat in the second row, right off the chutes, practically on the dirt.

We saw Mike Lee, Chase Outlaw, Silvano Alves, Stormy Wing and so many more ride, and get bucked off! Being that close made the injuries that much more difficult to see happen. It’s hard enough to see on tv, or on monitors, but to see them happen right in front of you, is horrifying . . . and I’m not exaggerating when I use that word.

I took at least a hundred photos, which I haven’t looked through yet. I’m hoping at least one or two came out in focus!

I get to go back in nine days, and can’t wait. We’ve lived here for seven years, almost eight, and this is the first time I’ve gone to the stock show. Next year, and every year after that, I intend to go again. 

As I assumed would happen, my mind was racing a mile a minute with story ideas. All I had to do was open my eyes, and another character idea, or story idea, or story element appeared before me. Even my experience last night, from a spectator's point of view attending with someone who didn’t know a whole lot about the sport, is something I intend to write. 

I’ve seen countless memes about being careful around a writer, they may be analyzing you as a potential character, and to be mindful, if you piss them off they’ll kill you off in their next book. Not sure about killing off any of my characters in this book series, but I can definitely agree with the analyzing part.

I’m tired today. I didn’t get home until close to midnight, and then couldn’t fall asleep from the adrenalin still racing through my system. I felt as though I’d only slept five minutes when it was time to get up and take Frank to school. Writing doesn’t take much physical energy though . . . time to get at it and write up all last night’s stories!

Motivated. Inspired. Excited. Writing.

I do this thing where I work a ridiculous number of hours one day intending to get ahead. It’s pointless because the next day I’m useless, can’t get anything done, and fall behind again. Monday was that day for me. Yesterday I somehow managed to accomplish a lot, even though my brain was mostly asleep.
I’m motivated, I’m inspired, I’m excited. I’m writing and the words are flowing out of me faster than I can type them. When I’m not writing, this is the feeling I yearn for. I can’t force it, it has to come on it’s own.
There may come a time that I don’t fall in love with one of my stories, but I hope not. There may also come a time when I don’t say how much I love a book I’m working on, but I hope that doesn’t ever happen either. I am so lucky to get to write, to be able to write, to have a story come together in such a way that I can’t wait to find out what’s going to happen next. And then, the lottery win in this scenario? To wake up and see this on Twitter:

Just finished reading @heatherbuchman book "And Then You Fall" didn't want to put the book down, and I didn't want the story to end ❤️'d it

It is next to impossible to find the right words to describe how reading something like that makes me feel. The happiness I am filled with is overwhelming in its intensity.

Today is going to be a great day. I’m having breakfast with my best friend, writing, and then going to NWSS. As it so happens, I am writing the characters in ATYK at NWSS right now. As I take it all in, I’ll be writing in my head, and tomorrow’s pages will be richer, more vibrant, based on the sights and sounds I am surrounded by tonight.

Last night I chatted with a couple people who are inspiring the next story. The next TWO books actually. Throughout my evening, I kept coming back to the same thought. I love my life. How lucky am I to get to do this? I hope I never take that feeling of awe for granted.

As I write this, I’m listening to Hurricane, the Fray’s second song off Helios. So far, I love both songs from this album. Of course, I think Isaac Slade is extraordinarily talented, but it’s been too long since I’ve been this taken with one of their releases. If the rest of this new album is anything like the first two early-release songs, it’ll rival How to Save a Life.

Another spectacular Colorado sunrise this morning greeted me as I took Frank to school. Motivating. Inspiring. Exciting. Writing.

Life Outa Whack

I’ve been working on a website for a new client since about six this morning. Without a break. The good news is, I’ve made signficant progress. It’s conceivable I’ll be finished with most of it sometime tonight. The bad news is, I haven’t done anything else. And every night this week, including tonight, I’ve got a meeting or an event.

I’m outa whack. My routine is shot to h*$!. 

And I haven’t written. Which I’m dying to do. I didn’t write yesterday either, but I did edit, so at least I had my fingers in the book. The thing is, I know what’s going to happen next. I don’t always. But this time I do. So it makes the yearning stronger. Because, while I know in general what’s going to happen next, I don’t know the details of it. Or, how it’s going to play out. The only way I’ll find out is to start writing.

All I can say at this point is, poor Jace. Two books now and the guy just can’t catch a break. 

Write Through It

There are countless quotes about writing, hundreds of thousands of them since, obviously, writers write. And they write quotes. And they use quotes. Graham Greene wrote, in The End of the Affair, “Pain is easy to write. In pain we’re all happily individual. But what can one write about happiness?”

One of the main characters in the book I’m writing, is processing through something very painful, emotionally painful. And as hard as it is to write, it’s also easier to write than happiness, as Greene stated. What makes it more difficult in this particular instance, is that it is a male character, and it’s important to me to get it right, or as close to right as I possibly can. 

Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” While I am a much lighter writer than Hemingway, on a scale of one to ten, I am a one to his ten . . . I can still relate. 

I’ve said before that Doug teases me about sitting in front of the computer, laughing one minute and sobbing the next. If you’ve seen Something’s Gotta Give, with Diane Keaton, picture her writing the play . . . I look something like that when I’m writing, only not as cute. 

There isn’t anyone I know that hasn’t experienced some level of pain in their life. Many of us have faced unimaginable pain, pain we never should have had to experience, pain we wouldn’t have predicted we could live through, had we known it was coming.

Write what you know (pain included). Write through it. Use it. Whatever the emotion is. More quotes, or advice, about writing. 

Last week my closest female friend spent the week attending various funeral services for her son-in-law’s sister's husband, a former USAFA cadet (as is his wife), who was killed in Afghanistan. I’ve talked to her intermittently over the course of the last few days, but yesterday, she talked, in depth, about the various services. Just listening to her, I was sobbing. I cannot imagine living through it. From the casket arriving on the tarmac at Peterson Air Force Base to it being lowered into the ground at the Air Force Academy cemetery. So much pain. So much sadness. So much tragedy. I ache just thinking about it. 

But I will write through it, and everything else I feel and experience in life. Nothing to it, right? It’s just bleeding.

#amwriting

It was as though the three of them were frozen in silence—trapped in an air pocket of stifling tension.

Yesterday I read AND THEN YOU DANCE, and when I reached the end of it, I was ready to write. It’s been a while. In fact, I can’t remember when I last tried to write. I think it was around Thanksgiving. 

I should know that sometimes all it takes is sitting down and doing it. It doesn’t always matter what the words are, as long as there are words. I’m writing this post to remind myself: just write, every day; the words will come.

I’ve been trying (over-trying) to figure out the storyline of this book, rather than just letting it flow out of me. Again, I know this. What I don’t know is why I don’t remember it. 

Yesterday I posted something about wondering why in the hell I wasn’t writing. Someone (one of my beta readers), answered, "because the story isn’t ready yet. When it comes, you will write. It always comes to you in a flurry of words. You can’t force it, it’s developing." She was right. She’s read three of my books. There are only a handful of people who can say that, one of the books she’s read hasn’t been released yet. She follows my writing on facebook, at least in part, and comments on it. I think it’s safe to say, she knows me, the writer me.

I love where this story is going and it was completely unexpected. All the energy I spent trying to figure it out didn’t result in this story line, writing did. I worried about where the tension would come from, I didn’t need to, it came on it’s own.

I’ve written almost 2,500 words, or about ten pages in the last eleven hours. That’s how it goes. Zero to sixty, in a heartbeat. Honestly, there isn’t a better feeling in the world. Well, maybe there is, but there isn’t a better feeling when I’m writing.

Isn’t It the Best Day of His Life?

In 2005, when Pope John Paul II died, Frank was about to turn six. We were still living in California then, and Frank went to a private Lutheran school. We were watching the news and there was coverage of people outside the Vatican mourning, some were crying.

We are not Catholic, so Frank did not have an understanding of what the pope represented, and thus, didn’t understand the mourners’ reactions.

He said, "Mom, I don’t understand why these people are crying."
"They’re sad because the pope died and in their religion, he is a very important person, some might consider him like a father, that’s why they’re sad," I answered.
"That’s the part I don’t understand."
I didn’t know how else to explain it to him, so I was quiet for a few seconds, trying to come up with another way of looking at it.
Then he said, "I mean, it’s gotta be the best day of his life, right? He gets to go to heaven."
Then I understood his confusion.

After we moved to Colorado, my mom called to say her dog had passed away. I was very sad when she told me, more for her because she was alone in California, and I knew how hard the loss of her pet would be. 

Again, Frank asked me about my reaction, and again I tried to explain. It was long enough after the pope incident that I had forgotten that particular conversation. So when he said, "Geez Mom, can you imagine what dog heaven must be like?" it brought a smile to my face. 

There was something on Facebook this morning, a similar story, that reminded me of these two occurances in Frank's life. And even if I’ve written about them before, I wanted to again. 

At the beginning of every year, we tackle another cleaning out/reorganization project. This year we got rid of the dreaded stuffed animal bin, which meant letting the boys choose one or two to keep in their childhood memory bins. Frank chose his monkeys. 

We had two identical stuffed monkeys for him. Something I read in a parenting article somewhere suggested having a back up for a beloved blanket/stuffed animal/security item, so you could wash the original occasionally or so there wasn’t utter devastation when the original was lost. 

We bought the backup and hid it away in Frank’s closet. He was probably around two years old when he discovered it. I distinctly remember that day and his reaction. His eyes got very big, he got a huge smile on his face, and in awe he said, "two munkins!" He held one in each arm and cuddled them against him. From that day on, he carried around both, although when we traveled he was only allowed to bring one along.

I told Frank that story when we were putting his bins back under his bed, expecting him to think it was silly, but instead he whispered, "two munkins," smiled and looked at me. Precious mom moment.

The Neverending Holding Pattern

There may be big changes on the horizon for me . . . on two fronts, but I don’t know when I’ll know about either one of them. Both require a certain amount of tenacity on my part, and one requires some major work before I even know what might happen. 

My already too-full list of things to do has now grown, by one rather big assignment, in an exponential way. The kicker is, even if I spend all the time required on it, it may amount to nothing. C’est la vie, n'est pas?

In the meantime, I am in a holding pattern . . . the end of which is not even in sight. A challenge, a lesson in patience. 

Someone asked me yesterday . . . in fact, two people asked me yesterday, what I would do if I could do anything. The truth is, I would write full-time. But few have that luxury, and I have years of dues to pay before that might become a reality. That isn’t to say I don’t love the other things I do. If I didn’t love them, I wouldn’t do them. It’s also not to say that if I got my wish, it would be the way I think it would be. The grass is rarely greener, no matter what career path you take.

Put one foot in front of the other, and no matter what . . . don’t quit.

And Then You Fall . . . Again.

Someone new is reading my book, and has commented a couple of times since he started reading it. Yep, I said he. Having anyone read the book and comment while they’re doing so is disconcerting. Having a guy read it is even more so. Yes, I know I should be over that by now, but I’m not.

Since he’s reading it, so am I. I like to do that . . . ask where someone is in the book, and then follow along. So a couple hours ago I asked, then sat at my desk and started reading again, from the place he was at. I just finished it. 

And once again, I love this book so much. And now it makes me want to read the next book again too. Which I also love so much. And it makes me want to write. 

I’m having some trouble with the story on book three. I’ve had a couple of epiphanies, and fortunately, I think I wrote my ideas down . . . somewhere. Yesterday it went further, and I had ideas about how I want to write the FMC, which I hadn’t given much though to until now. I also have a secondary character, another woman, I’m ready to introduce. That character will add another interesting dimension to the book . . . but it takes some research before I’m ready to write it. Let’s just say that visiting the National Western in nine days will definitely help. Then again, seeing the PBR pro-touring finals, up close and personal, helps more than the book. (Wink.)

This part of the process is so frustrating. I tell myself I just need to sit down and write, but then in the back of my mind, I know I’m not ready to, which is why I’m not doing it. It’s just that it is so much fun when I am ready, when the story is coming together, and the words are flying out of me faster than I can type them. It makes me yearn to do it all the time. Patience in this process is as difficult to muster in the same way patience is always difficult to muster. 

I just had a friend stop by who asked when she could expect to start reading book three. Ironic, I told her, that I was just writing a blog post about how I’m not ready to write. She reminded me that I promised she would have the third book to read early 2014. She did grant me that it was still early 2014, but she was growing impatient.

Okay, then. Once again, I’m almost ready.

Snow

Looking out my wall of windows, I’m mesmerized by the snow that started falling sometime between 6:00 and 8:00am this morning, and hasn’t stopped. It’s beautiful. The flakes are huge, like they were at Copper a couple weeks ago when we were skiing.  Given that I don’t have anywhere I need to be, I’m perfectly content to sit inside my warm house and enjoy it. If I had to go somewhere, I might feel differently. 

I’m in a stay-home-and-get-things-done mood anyway. Today I finished my annual clean up iTunes project, and added a few things to Frankie’s memory bins. If it wasn’t snowing I might be tempted to drive to Walmart and pick up another under-bed storage thing, but thankfully, I have the perfect excuse not to bother. 

Yesterday we cleaned and organized all the refrigerators and pantries in the house. My family wasn’t too happy with me, but they helped anyway. Then Doug went through the owners manual files and got rid of anything we no longer had, some of which we haven’t had for years, while I cleaned out the 2013 files. We all fell into bed around 8pm, exhausted.

Later today I have to sort through Beck’s memory bins and get them better organized. And then, the bins of family photos await my attention. Ugh.

Etiquette classes start Tuesday, wine tastings start up again later this month, the classes I teach at the Air Force Academy are scheduled to start up again in February (fingers crossed) . . . not to mention the book(s) I’m in the middle of writing. National Western starting soon, concerts to go to. Lots to get ready for.

I’m feeling as though 2014 is going to be a good year, another year of accomplishment, but for today, I’m happy to sit at my writing desk, listen to music, and let myself be carried away by the beautiful view outside my window.

Not Yet

Having the holiday in the middle of the week has me lost in terms of what day it actually is. Today seemed like Monday, but if it was Monday, the kids would be going back to school. Instead, tomorrow is Friday, and then there’s a weekend, and then the kids go back to school.

I’m not ready for it to be 2014, let alone for it be time for the kids to go back to school— for us to go back to the routine that will be our lives until May. 

A friend went home today, I wasn’t ready for that either. 

I feel as though I’ve been putting off everything I need to do until after the new year, but now that the new year is here, I’m looking for another excuse to continue putting things off. As if I need another excuse ever.

I forced myself to do one end of the year project today. Forced. At least I didn’t whine and complain (outloud), the entire time. Tomorrow I’ll force myself to do another. And then I’ll be happy they’re done, but I still won’t be ready for it to be the new year.

Sigh.