I suppose I've been in a kind of dream world for the last year. Thyroid issues dragged me into a deep cellar and I didn't even know it. Finally had the blasted thing removed in April, but the dragging down continues.
I wish I could say I was better. I'm not in a good place at the moment. Not writing, per se, but I edit my old stories. In fact, I've decided that I should step into the 21st Century and self-publish. It's not the 'bad' word that it used to be. I even note that Writer's Digest and others have awards for self-published books, something that was anathema even only a year or two ago.
I've pulled My Sword Sings from it's hiding place, dusted it off, and edited the first few chapters. Then, I presented to my writer's group, Skyline (off again/on again member this past year). They liked it. Which should be no surprise to me. But it is. My dearest friend, Margaret, warned me that an author is the last (or the first) to think their writing sucks. With clarity and friends, we discover we are good writers. Thank goodness for friends.
Clarity is not part of my ethos at this time. My body does not accept the meds. Doc and I push onward, waiting till my body decides it really needs the replacement hormones. Blasted bodies.
Being here, at my keyboard, might mean there is hope. I hope so. Sorry for the long absence. Praying this is the beginning of restoration of hope and writing and joy. Same to you!