Denial is not a pretty thing. As I write, snowflakes circle and drift earthward. A cozy, if somewhat alien, lap rug of snow is tugged up tight across the landscape. New paw prints lead from the garden shed to the deck, indicating a depth of four or so inches. What the hell. When did it become winter? Wait. Christmas was last week?
My yet unwritten Christmas missive begins, Contrary to the evidence you're holding in your hands, this letter is not late.
I seem to be floundering in a soupy concoction of denial and misplaced time management. Streams of liquid sunshine and unrestrained laughter float aimlessly down a lazy river. I'm draped across an inner tube, head thrown back, soaking up the shrill cry of a red-tailed hawk, the rugged skyline of pines, the scent of heat on water. I think I must be back in August somewhere. And, dang-it-all, I've lost my inter
stellar time traveler thingy.
So, no writerly wisdom or blinding wit to amuse you. Just an admission: Not only did I slip off the radar for awhile, but I managed to delude myself into thinking I hadn't. My apologies. I've missed you all.
But, most of all, I've missed that predatory focus that comes with writing.