…or any of that other stuff can keep those swift couriers, blahblahblah. But what if the swift completion of those appointed rounds meant cutting out a twin-bed-sized hunk of ruined carpet, and mopping puddles of water off bathroom floors, and setting fans and spraying antimicrobial solutions on walls?

Let’s see whatcha got, postman. Time to throw down.

Arrived at the river to find a disaster in progress. Something in the wall went horribly, horribly wrong. Spent a huge hunk of the weekend getting things stable. And let me assure even me—who’s not all that freaked by camping out with bottled water and fireplace heat during an ice storm—that taking birdbaths out of the sink because the well pump’s been turned off are not fun.

And still, I wrote.

I’ve posted before that the insanity of writing has been, on occasion, the only thing that’s kept me sane. This weekend, that was certainly the case. Can’t say that I got a lot done, not by volume at least. But keeping at it was what counted. The triumph in splitseconds. Even if those seconds were interrupted by the need to go make sure that the damned bathroom wasn’t floating away.

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