I am writing this with the aid of a clattery old keyboard attached to my laptop because yesterday I splashed water on the laptop keyboard and it no longer works. I'm in a rather numb state in lieu of staying truly calm. I suppose the situation will work itself out, or not.
I've been contemplating lately my comfort zone when it comes to personal sharing on social media. This week someone online attacked me out of the blue and then blocked me when I replied reminding them I am a real person. I used to share a lot more personally in years past but things like that stopped me; however, I wondered if it would have happened this time if my individuality was more apparent in my words. And yet, what does a writer owe to the public?
For the past several years, I have been dealing with serious health issues. The situation in America affects me in a deeply personal way for reasons I'm disinclined to share; suffice it to say, the daily news is anguishing. As I type this, another great and precious tree in my neighbourhood is being cut down, and because of such things I have largely forgetten what beauty feels like in the joyful mind. I can't contemplate climate change for more than a few seconds without beginning to hyperventilate. And then there are the nicer things - I am writing two books, one like the light of the moon and one like the dark; one a comedy, one a dream. (At least, I was before my computer broke.) I am building a tea cup collection I never thought possible. I have endured.
I am a real and ordinary person. But I don't want to write about that. I want to write magic, love, peace, hope. I don't owe the public anything, but I owe that to myself.