I've become lazy and resorted to using old photos and maybe that should have been a sign things weren't as rosy as I had convinced myself, along with the unfolded washing that crept in this week, and the unwashed floor, and the increasing unwillingness to get out of bed in the morning. Yesterday I sat down on the couch sometime in the morning and just stayed there. I wanted to move. I just couldn't.
Ah well. Things are what they are.
This morning I looked up the first page of a novel I started writing in January but had given up on, and it wasn't entirely horrible, not every bit of it needed burning on the sacred pyre of oh-my-god-what-were-you-thinking? A line or two was even a bit good. And after all these years, these decades, of doubting, that was enough. Enough to convince myself that if I can keep finding a sentence or two and if I keep stringing them all together, maybe one day there'll be a whole story, and maybe one day someone other than me will want to read it.
And now Eilidh has eaten her lunch and cleaned her room and vacuumed her floor and changed out of her pyjamas and is sitting on the side of my bed waiting for her promised turn on the computer.