…unless I must; if I must cry over the withering carcasses of what used to be, then I will wail for my blooms in style.
Three days ago, I found out that if my health continued improving (or if it remained stable) then I would be able to do all the things I’ve wanted to do for a while. As you may imagine, the news had me over the moon. If we are Facebook friends or if you visit my blog regularly, then you probably read my delight oozing out of everything I shared.
Then, yesterday, I cut the tip of my left middle finger… and didn’t feel it… in fact, I didn’t realize I had cut myself until I had already bled all over my keyboard… The cut looks angry right now, but I can squeeze it until it bleeds and still feel nothing. It seems that I’m not healing as yummily as my doctors and I hoped. And a gazillion and three tests will be added to the million and one that had already been scheduled for the next few weeks.
What does this mean for me, aside from lots of future time at the hospital and many bad jokes about how I might not be able to flip people off with real feeling anymore? Well, it means rearranging my writing and publishing plans, yet again. I had planned to publish something big in April… and a smaller something in December. Only a handful of people knew this—my Piano Man and a few of my closest friends. I didn’t want to get you all excited and then have to disappoint you.
I was very sad, last night… for a couple of hours… I even cried a bit… okay, I kind of screamed with rage (and probably gave my neighbors ideas of calling the police or animal control). But after a few hours rewriting my schedules and glaring at Fate while baring my teeth, all was well again. Life happens, and I will happen with it; when life throws me lemons, I’ll make mojitos… and all those other super-annoying (and rather tasty) clichés.
I can’t publish what I wanted to, but I can do something else. I’m thinking a very short collection of poetry featuring all my loves and the mayhem that makes them wonderfully mine. Imagine it, my Wicked Luvs: December poetry set in AlmaMia Cienfuegos’ world, winter with Lum and Darlene, and what does Drusilla do for the holidays?
So there you have it, Fate dearest, I won’t cry for my dead flowers… I’m a witchy woman, remember? I’ll rearrange the remains, until the corpses of my blooming ideas look pretty.