Finding My Roots

And for once I’m not talking about my hair.

I promised myself to give Writer Cate a break until after the husband got better. Well, firstly, I am the worst promise keeper ever, especially when I promise myself. Face it, who am I disappointing? Secondly, thanks to the insurance company, this whole thing has drawn out way longer than we anticipated. Stem cell transplant was supposed to be over by now, for Pete’s sake, and we’re not even started yet!

So, since I am the most impatient person ever, I have decided it is time to get back into the writing game. Now I’m tiptoeing here. I am still blocked better than the creek after the beavers come out for the spring. I wouldn’t know a good idea if it walked up a smacked me in the face, and I know it. So the idea is not to write, but to rewrite. Subtle difference there, I know, but an important one. I decided it’s time to go back to something I already wrote and tweak it. Make it fit the me who has learned a thing or two since I first put fingers to keyboard. Heck, I may even go back to some of my waaaay early stuff.

I had a flashback the other day. Not that kind, no – only my husband is on mind-altering chemicals at the moment. Nope, just a memory triggered by a smell. They say our olfactory senses are the most linked to memory, and mine sure are. I smelled a hot lamp. You don’t see those much in these days of green CFLs, but when I was a kid, I had a metal desk lamp with a big old hot bulb in the thing. It was hot to the touch, so I scaled myself time and time again, but it put off a burning scent that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. I would sit at my desk for hours working on my stories, as Mom called them. I’d write, draw my heroine’s living room, you name it. All under the watchful, smelly lamp.

So when the same scent came to me the other day, I was instantly transported back in time to that old desk, my old manual typewriter, and those characters I happily spent hours fleshing out. And I missed it. Sure, my lamp today is made of green glass and my desk chair isn’t an old dinette set reject. I tap on a laptop instead of an old manual Royal, but the feeling is still the same. And I miss it.

It won’t happen over night, and I’m sure I’m going to be a lot slower than I was a year ago, but the time has come. I’m coming back.

Be afraid, folks. Be very afraid.

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2 Comments

Filed under It's A Writing Life

2 responses to “Finding My Roots

  1. Welcome back! glad you’re writing again. You’ve got lots of cheerleaders and whip crackers on twitter willing to help you out!

  2. LOL Thanks. I might need some whip-cracking!