Yes, it’s amazing what a girl can accomplish if she abandons writing. I know. It’s an offense to the authors out there who pride themselves on getting their butts in the chair each morning for hours and producing literary offspring. Oh, I’ve been that purist. And now? Now I’m just my flawed self asking for nothing. Not even acceptance. I’m too busy with newfound projects to be introspective. Amazing for a writer, believe me. I wrote because writing was air. But guess what? I can breathe underwater too. I like it here.

This summer I embarked on a massive project. Plywood flooring. I needed a hundred and thirty planks to replace all of my worn-out carpeting. And that took a big chunk out of the season.

I had the boards cut at the hardware store. They kind of hated me. But they did it. Then I brought the wood home and sanded, stained, and varnished. Then I had to lay them. Yes, in the rooms. I used three kinds of saws to make the cuts.

Lastly I did the staircase.

My characters did kick up conversations as I worked outside in the ninety degree summer weather. They had torrid love affairs, red-hot arguments. They shouted words of despair at one another, twisting their hands and plotlines. But nothing was written down.

I made a butcher block workbench. I put wheels on it.

I did nothing, nothing to promote my books. I haven’t blogged. Sales are sluggish but still happening. All by themselves. I rarely check on them. They are out there in the world, abandoned. Not really. But I’m not holding their hands like Psycho-Momma.

I made pickles. Forty two quarts. And I pickled my bedframe with a solution of vinegar and steel wool.

It came out like this.

I stenciled my bathroom floor.

Laid new flooring in my other bathroom.

Painted many walls. And ceilings. Cut acres of grass.

Oh, I’ve been busy.

And now it’s fall.

I have that book ready to go. But I don’t kick it out of the chute.

I’m taking apart pallets now. I’m thinking of making some signs.

And my characters just keep talking.