Creative Healing

I am working on a new novel. A mystery with a 62-year-old protagonist who was formerly homeless. A body is found in a Jeep in the Wolf River Harbor. My man Coot is on the case.

This is why I haven’t been posting lately. When I am drafting—not revising, but writing new work—everything else pretty much comes to a stand still. I am only posting now because I’m about to go into hip surgery and between the writing and the surgery, I don’t know when I will post again. I don’t want y’all to worry about me.

I’m not kidding.

I frequently worry about bloggers who suddenly quit posting. I will go on their site to make sure my notifications haven’t gone wonky, and they’re really not posting.  I breathe a sigh of relief when they return to the blogosphere. Some don’t return, and I choose to believe their lives have become so full and rich, no time remains for them to blog.

If you don’t hear from me for a while, know I am awash in creativity, falling steadily more in love with yet another of my own characters. Or I’m healing. These two activities intersect at my bedside table where I’ve stored up stacks and stacks of mystery books to be reading/researching while laid up. Until I “see” you again, life will be good.

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