I was supposed to write 90 stories in 90 days and guess what? I haven't.
I started the project three months before my 40th birthday as a countdown, and as a way for me to prompt myself to write something -- anything. Cause, you know, I'M A WRITER (dammit). But, let's be honest, as noble as it is, no one really cares about this little device. So whatever, I'll write a bunch of stories before my 40th birthday. Math was never my strong suit.
Also, I have not felt like writing. I have felt like sleeping and crying and eating copious amounts of sea salt caramel gelato. And, when I'm going through a lot of emotions (check) I don't really want to write. I want to mindlessly scroll through Twitter and take naps.
Also, some bad things have happened this summer. The ones on the news and the ones amongst people I love. My mother-in-law passed away last week. Other branches of my family continue to fight the seemingly medical maladies and things just going wrong. My dog stopped being able to use his back legs. I find myself having to drink more and more coffee to motivate myself to get out of bed, all the while it's getting too hot outside to drink coffee and Lord knows I do not need more caffeine.
This is a sticky summer of undoing, and the sticky summer of becoming.
My child is well cared for by a summer sitter. I have met new friends and collaborators. My husband has been making this amazing summer salad with quinoa. There is the presence of a small still voice that points me toward my future and sushes my anxiety, gently helping me release the first three decades and the insistence of old ideas I once clung to.
I have a new doormat with pink flamingos and too many good books to read in one season. It's a sticky, in between season.
This is day something of 90 Stories in 90 Days.