The ending is always the beginning...

I've still been ignoring this blog shamefully -- not that there are legions out there reading it but I like to write here because it forces me to create something other than fiction -- but, when I'm deep into writing a fictional story, everything else suffers and that has included this blog. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel -- though reaching that light is equal parts ecstasy and agony. It's always that way when I let go of characters -- and their story -- which have consumed me for months. Like children leaving the nest, I want to push them out and I want to reel them back in.

But there has to be an end to one story so that a new one can begin. I have the main female character's name for the next piece already -- it was whispered to me -- but without any other instructions -- so I don't know who, what, when or where. But, eventually, the characters will start speaking loudly and I'll be compelled to write down what they say. And the insanity will begin again.

So, as I wind down the editing of this last creation, I'm envisioning some weeks of peace and quiet. At least inside my head. Outside my head, there is a new ending and a new beginning on its way. My eldest is in the last weeks (days?!) of her pregnancy (the ending) and soon, the baby (the beginning) will arrive, just in time for Christmas.

My intention, when I first found out that I was going to become a grandmother at such a young age (cough) was to keep a record of it, on this blog, but, unfortunately, these past months coincided with writing a novel so...I failed....but don't think it's not something that I haven't thought about every single day. This has all dovetailed perfectly actually -- not only with the story itself but with the finishing of it. And, soon, I'll be letting one love go to embrace another greater love.

I'm still worried. I'm still not a "baby person". I still don't get all squishy every time I see one. I'm still heading toward this new phase on a wing and a prayer. And, truthfully, I'm selfish about having my writing time interrupted or having to put my wants and needs on the back-burner. When you are a mother and have raised three children and they've all flown, you think, ah, now, it's my time. But, so far, it hasn't worked out that way. But that's okay, as C-3PO said, "I was made to suffer..."

Okay, I'm kidding. I'm not really suffering. But I do have to work really hard to stay upbeat. That old depression-monster is always out to get me, though I fight it tooth and nail. And, when I'm not writing, that's when it tries the hardest to invade -- and is more likely to be successful. If too much time goes by between the end of one story and the beginning of another, it is a cause for alarm. I will only take the smallest dose of antidepressant that I can so that the voices aren't silenced completely because, if they go, I spiral downward with them. If you think hearing voices is crazy, ask my ever-patient husband and he will tell you that not hearing them, for me, is much, much worse.

But, as I near the end of this particular writing and editing frenzy, I will have something other than more writing to look forward to...

So, come on out and play, baby Jackson...

I may not be ready...but I'm willing...

The adventure begins again...

I've been trying to get my thoughts together before writing this particular post. For those who only read my blog (and not my forum or who are not on Facebook), you aren't aware that last weekend brought more than senior prom and a beautiful daughter in a Cinderella dress.

It also brought news from our beautiful eldest daughter: she and her husband are expecting a baby in December. So, that means yours truly is going to be a grandperson! It did not come as a huge surprise -- I'd had a feeling it would be sooner rather than later -- though it seems only yesterday (instead of two years ago) that I was writing about wedding festivities.

I haven't had to deal with an infant in eighteen years so I'm feeling a little rusty. Couple that with an admission -- which I've always freely given -- that I've never been a "baby person" and it's got me a little nervous. I'm just not one of those who melts when I see a baby -- or one that wants to hold one the moment I lay eyes on it. I've been told, though, that a grandchild is a whole other ballgame -- so I'm going to embrace that idea on a wing and a prayer -- and hope that, even if I can't be a fantastic grandmother, I can be a decent one. Is that too much to ask?! Or not quite enough?!

Of course, the ideas that are occupying my head at the moment are these...

The most important is that Shannon has a healthy pregnancy and easy birth and that the baby will be healthy (and easy!) as well.

Second, I'm trying to decide what I want him or her to call me.

I'm just not one that wants to be granny or grandma or grandmother. I don't want to be Mimi or Gigi or Nina -- or any other nicknames. I am willing to accept whatever the child wants to call me (and others who follow) but, until the child can speak, I have to refer to myself as something -- so I've got to decide what I want that to be. I have a few ideas but I don't know. I don't want to get ridiculous. And I don't want to make it more of an issue than it is (because, really, in the scheme of things, it isn't).

I've asked Mark what he wants to be called but all I get from him is a "hmmph". I don't think his brain has wrapped around the idea at all.

I think he's feeling a little, shall I say, too mature. We're both fifty and I think I've accepted that as a number more than an age (though my body does remind me quite often that I'm no spring chicken). The thing is, men always seem to hang on to certain juvenile areas in their brains so he needs to just connect with that and run with it. And try not to annoy me in the process.

As they say (who are "they", anyway?), the only cure for old age is dying young. So, I'm determined to embrace each new stage of my life with as much gusto as I can manage.

Even if that means my child is having a child.

So, let the adventure begin again...

This is where it all started...


Mark, Lynn and our pet, Peeve, 1984