Grieving for the death of a loved one when it hasn't yet completely sunk in. Surely he's just in the next room and I just need to call his name and he will be back out. Surely she just went to the store and will be back in due time.
And my mind spins along a drunken trail that weaves in and out of memories and reality, of family togetherness that sometimes becomes too much, of compassion that is there for others but not necessarily for self.
So I live as if life is going on as normal. As much as I can.
The same thing with the writerly life. I live as if I am a writer. For I am. I do not earn a living at it. Not yet. Maybe never. But I write.
I walked this afternoon and picked up three books from a Little Library: Bluebeard's Egg by Margaret Atwood, Julia & the Master of Morancourt by Janet Aylmer, and The Family Man by Elinor Lipman. That shows you how unfocused my mind is--a collection of short stories, a regency romance, and a comedy.
I had started reading Henna House last month by Nomi Eve, enthralled by the story until the half-way point. It's about a young Yemenite Jewish girl in the 1920s, her fear of the Confiscator, and the complicated dynamics of oppression, and the lack of safety and security. Fascinating story. But I began to feel too heavy with dread for what might come. And so I will put it away for now, to read completely at some later date.