It’s NaNoWriMo time again. It looks like the last time I participated was in 2018. Things have been weird since then. Well, maybe they’re always weird. Out of the blue, this morning, on the first day of November, I opened Scrivener and started to write. I haven’t a clue where I’m going with it, and am just flying by the seat of my pants. The last time I did that, I got absolutely nowhere. This time will likely be the same.

It feels good to write, though. I wrote a bit over 2,000 words this morning and it feels so nice to do it, that I may write more again later on. I have a client’s session to do, and the dishes aren’t washed, and the floors aren’t swept, and I have to do the dog’s toenails today at some point. Past experience over the last fifty-five or so years shows me that if I’m into my imaginary-friend mode (aka writing a story), things like that tend to not get done.

In my memory, which I confess is faulty these days due to the Lyme Disease and the fact that I’m just plain getting old, the happiest times of my life were when I was just writing. For a while, that’s all I did. I didn’t make much money at it, but I loved getting up early, before I had to get the kids up for school, and tapping away at the computer keyboard for a few hours. I poured out some pretty good stuff in those days, including the few books and short stories that I actually got published in a traditional format. I was a writer. Not a hugely successful one, but I was doing what I loved. I was even involved in writers’ groups online, including a pretty nice little critique group. I still hear from some of those folks today on occasion, mostly on Facebook. They’re all making their livings at their writing craft.

I got distracted. I was sidelined by this talent I have of being able to emotionally connect with animals, and that became the focus of my time. I’ve done animal communication for 22 years now, and though I still try to get back into my writing, there are, I have discovered, only so many hours in a day.

Yet, my own daydream is to someday be the reclusive writer who does nothing but write, publishes enough to really earn a decent living at it, and doesn’t have to do book signings or give interviews or deal with the ups and downs of the human race on a daily basis. I would live surrounded by nature, with only my beloved immediate family close by. I’d have my dog, and my cat, and a guppy or two(hundred*), and Starlings around me for conversation during my long days tapping at the keyboard and creating magic.

I’m weird like that.

I am seriously considering retiring as I hit 65, which is in a handful of months. I’ll let my little Social Security earnings buy the pet food, and for the rest of my senior years, do nothing but write.

I still want to be Agatha Christie when I grow up, but since that’s already been taken, I’ll settle for being me, as long as my Words can go with me for the ride.

(*Guppies tend to do that….)