So my mother left at 5:45 this morning. She's been in from Montana for the last three weeks. But only this last week was she ensconced at Chez Quinn.
I love my mother. Like Christmas and taxes, she comes but once a year. And her visits are the emotional equivalent of a bungee jump. The jerking of emotions from highs to lows and back again are one of the universe's mysteries revealed in great detail as it's played out in my house.
On top of that, the youngest urchin was home sick today, so writing could not resume after a week of forced respite while visiting with my mom.
So many times after a visit I go into isolationism mode to recover. I even have a category for that on the sidebar to the right. I'm hoping to skip the crazed over-analyzing and dreariness that follows such visits by plunging into the w.i.p. again. Though that can be dangerous territory. I can take left turns in my writing and seriously torture my characters in some sort of twisted effigy of self preservation that will take weeks of rewrites to repair.
Maybe I'll just take up a new hobby. (No, not knitting tank cozies.) Something more sensible.
Like Roadkill Art (tm).
Until next time, citizens. Unless I succumb to the isolation booth. Then who knows when I'll return.
From the pit (of despair)
4 hours ago