Where have I been? These past few months have been even quieter than usual around here, and considering how quiet it can get on this blog, that’s near silence. I have a few good reasons – honestly, some very good reasons – but I also have a load of guilt. A writer writes – and, I haven’t been writing.
What happens when a writer doesn’t write? Guilt, yes. A loss of identity, sure. Constantly wondering if you’re ever going to write again. And if you never do, who are you?
But all that existential angst is for another time.
This post is about why I’ve been quiet. I’ve sat on this news for three months now and it hasn’t been easy. I’ve been foggy-headed and nauseated and every time I’ve tried to sit down and write, my stories haven’t even been within shouting distance. But now that fog is thinning and I’ve reached a “safe” enough place in this nine-month-long process that I can both share that I’ve been having trouble being a writer and the reason why:
Yup: after two incredibly long years and countless emotional-rollercoaster months and coming within spitting distance of giving up, I’m pregnant.
Now if you’ll excuse me, my stories are within grabbing distance and I have a new novel about gators and swamps and post-apocalyptic outbreaks to write.
