When I talked to my mother this morning, she said she told you she wasn't going to tell me that you commented on the increasing infrequency of my blog posts. Obviously, she did anyway.
Just so you know, I was about to start this letter, when I remembered that I needed to call my accountant before I didn't remember to. He told me it wouldn't be a bad idea to put off invoicing until after the new year, so that is one thing off my plate for now. That is welcome news, since my plate seems fuller than my husband's on Thanksgiving Day. There is the load of laundry sitting in the washing machine begging to be dried. (I'm not worried about that, though. It's winter, and the laundry can sit in there for a solid day before starting to smell musty and needing a re-wash.) The toilets are about a week overdue for a scrubbing. Finley baked cookies yesterday for holiday parties at school, and the kitchen counter is littered with dirty pots, pans, and utensils. (I have been threatening and coercing and heaping guilt upon that girl in an effort to get her to clean up after herself without being asked, but apparently the part of her brain that dictates order does not function. I am hoping it is just a hormonal, pre-teen thing, and not something that is permanently broken.) It's a good thing we don't have mice. The amount of crumbs scattered throughout would make them fat and happy. The truck needs to have its intake gaskets replaced. I have bales of pine needle sitting in my un-weeded flowerbeds. You are beginning to get the picture.
Truthfully, there have been at least one hundred posts I've started in my head, but pushed aside in an effort to accomplish the things on my mental list of priorities. A few times, I actually sat down and started to type one out, but I was either interrupted or my thoughts veered completely off the original path and I gave up. Today, however, priorities have shifted and come hell or high water, I'm writing.
It occurs to me that some of the blame for my failures lie squarely on the shoulders of your cousin, my mother. I have people suggest that I set aside a time slot for writing (or other artistic endeavors that fall short of the survival category). Frankly, though, my mother did a lousy job instilling a habit of self-discipline in me. As well-intentioned as my intentions are, I just can't seem to keep appointments with myself.
Now, if some one else gives me an assignment and a deadline, I'm on it. Paper due in the morning? I will eek it out in the wee hours of the night. Kids out of underwear? The washing machine jumps to action. Knowing this about myself, I did sign up for an art class this year. Having shelled out a chunk of money and someone to tell me what to do, I've actually painted a few things this year (see below). Perhaps I should hire you to be my writing boss, and then the words will flow.
I don't know why I've let your expectations dictate my morning, but they have. And what will I get in return? You have a way with words, but aside from a clever poem every decade or so and the occasional (and I mean occasional) e-mail, I never read anything from your pen. If I ever find out that you have a trove of stories and poems ferreted away in a desk somewhere that no-one has had the pleasure of reading, I will be first upset, then delighted. So I suggest that unless there are a myriad of legitimate excuses your retired self cannot write, you make use of the frigid, Montana winter and scribble a few things down.
I hope you and Sandy are staying warm and well.
Fondly,
-w
