On this crisp, bright, altogether magnificent day, those four words are as much a question as a statement.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I am feeling slightly sorry for myself this morning, the mockery of sunny days.

The world seems indifferent to my presence. The boxes that still clog the garage certainly are. The tasks that need doing have retreated from urgency, to the realm of out-of-sight-out-of-mind; have reduced themselves to a box-by-box evaluation of what’s needed, what’s necessary, what’s still confused and refusing to find a niche. The cats are, I think sometimes, all about what’s in it for them. Selfish little boogers.

The book doesn’t need me. Or doesn’t seem to. With The Spiritkeeper, the emotional wellbeing of the characters was something I carried in my hands, sheltered with all the love and warmth in me. They loved me, those creatures of Word, and I them. This book, less so. I am small compared to the greater presence of the cosmos where the characters’ eyes are turned. I am invisible.

It’s okay. It is. This is a maudlin self-indulgence that will pass.

I have the stillness.  The birdsong. The prism-rainbows that dance on my walls, mornings. I have shelter and enough to eat. I have happy cats that sleep in the sunshine. I have friends whose love I treasure, even from a distance. I have this book. And the next one. And possibility for both, despite self-doubt.

That the book, the professional world, the things and people I love are not clamoring for me…that my voice is the only one I hear…that my characters are not whispering for me to give myself to them…it’s okay.

It’s a low-barometric-pressure day for me emotionally. The signal of a change in inner weather. And the change will carry me with it. It always does.

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