I’m not going to talk about how Friday was a bad day; a day of self-recriminations, of idling, of not-crying-and-should-be-crying, of opening cupboards and shutting them again, moving toys from one area to another, for no reason and certainly with no results on the room-cleanliness scale.
I’m not going to talk about my father this week – and I was going to, because my mother and sister are currently vacationing in Japan, and they won’t be around to see it. Not that it matters in either case, but mentally, for me, it might be easier to talk about it that way. The words came out, but I might save it for an offline essay.
I’m not going to talk about how yesterday, a gorgeous Melbourne Autumn day, I spent half-hungover and half-panicked because I have lost two book manuscripts, which together add up to over 250,000 words. Do you have any idea of how thick a pile of papers that is to lose? To vanish? When we were redecorating the cupboards I moved them surreptitiously, like they were hunted members of the witness protection program, so no one else could find them to ruin by scribbling (has happened before), to a place God only knows where. If I can’t find them I’ll have to reprint them, and that’ll be expensive.
But I will talk about the last part, soon. I think it’ll play a big part throughout the rest of the year. At least, I want it to.
So I guess for someone not talking, I just did a little bit, yes? Good.
Better than crying.
