Is there anything worse than untrimming a Christmas tree? I can’t think of much.
However, I tempered this horrendous holiday chore of dismantling beauty with something that attempts to build some. (Or I hope, anyway.)
Over 2 years ago, I made a significant start on a novel. About 5 chapters of solid bones. Yesterday, I actually added a little life to that skeleton, by beginning work on it again.
I’ve been writing this thing for years in my head, but it doesn’t really count if you never breathe actual life into whispers from your dreams. The last few weeks have been especially intense with ideas rolling around like tumbleweeds up there, but for some reason, I always find an excuse not to gather them up on paper where they belong.
So last night, albeit not much, a solid page of life was granted.
It’s fighting for survival, and I am Dr. Frankenstein.