I didn’t work on craft things. I did come back with a short story, followed by a novella. The first is finished and in the revision stage; the second is nearly finished.
I’ve started this post a half a dozen times in my head: as a musing on the impermanence of things, taking as a starting point the fact that I cannot find some of the yarns that were in stores a year ago, because knitting as a craze has crested; as a consideration of loss, and confronting loss–which was already part of my vacation experience– followed by the news, when we returned, that one of my earliest and best supporters was entering hospice care.
I considered writing a humorous piece thanking Nathan Bransford for his blog about getting side-tracked and letting time slide between posts. For one thing, his post was certainly timely, and for another, it would give me the chance to publicly thank him for years of sensible advice.
I had plans to incorporate more of the fun stuff. I hadn’t anticipated that my daughter’s last year of school would be quite so frenetic or so vulnerable to bouts of bittersweet retrospection.
I suppose I could have launched forth on the subject of working in a semi-detached townhouse between a neighbor who is meticulously re-sanding his wood floors and one who possesses not one but two yapping little dogs all of which may be heard in my basement retreat.
The closest thing to profundity that I seem to be able to wrest from all of this is that the same–forget profundity.
It’s this: You pick yourself up; you keep going.