The return of winter earlier this week has thrown me into a mini-funk which was exacerbated by mid-back issues. As he was torturing massaging the cement lumps encasing my shoulder and neck muscles last night he said,

“You had the same thing about this time last year too. Is it the anniversary of something?”

Fucking anniversaries. I am so done with “honoring” my past traumas with dominion over my body whenever they are feeling neglected. But to answer the question, no, April is a memory insignificant month in terms of the dead people in my life. Nothing important happened.

Last spring I was freaking slightly about our trip to the States because we hadn’t gotten our residency issues resolved, and I worried every time we went down there that BabyD and I wouldn’t be allowed to come back home with Rob. 

I just need a vacation. When I was a teacher, time off was just that. I couldn’t teach if I wasn’t at school. Writing is different. It is always at my fingertips or beckoning me or accusing me of slacking or neglect. I am its bitch. And it is very tiring and as slow as the pay-off for teaching was – writing seems to have no pay-off.

I think I am putting too much pressure on myself with the novel because it is a real novel, the most significant thing I have done to date, and the prospect of pitching it this summer at Willamette is immobilizing me. I don’t feel ready and yet, when is anyone ready? When the moment to jump comes, you jump … or you miss it … maybe forever.

I need a walk and a ramble through the mall, but since the latter isn’t within the realm of the possible, I will settle for a walk.

TGIF and all that.