This whole brush-with-cancer thing got me writing again. Mostly I did it to channel my anxiety into something productive, and I was productive. Six pages, 1600 words in two days. Not too shabby, really. It proves that I can still write when I'm motivated.
The story I began was my worst-case scenario. I needed to see it played out in my own mind, and feel like I had some control over the situation. A young mother dies unexpectedly on the operating table during what should have been routine surgery, leaving her career-focused husband to care for their two very young sons on his own. Before she goes into the hospital, she sends her best friend a manila envelope packed with letters to her husband and boys "just in case." And it's about how she continues to touch them and teach them and be instrumental in their lives, even though she is no longer physically with them.
There's nothing like having the bejeezus scared out of you to get your mind to zoom in on what's most important. All I could think about was that my lack of organization, my lack of communication with Tom, was going to create problems for everybody if I wasn't around. It also highlighted how writing is better than therapy, at least as far as I'm concerned, and that I need to write to maintain some mental equilibrium.
So technically, I'm working on two books simultaneously. The funny, pregnancy-from-hell sequel to Home Improvement and the tear-jerking, emotionally gut-wrenching family drama that I'm calling, for lack of a better title, The Green Bough. If you take the "you are what you eat" analogy and extrapolate that to "are what you write," I'm obviously bi-polar. :-) I'm not going to be a hard core writer again for years (although I did register John for two day preschool next year to give me some real writing time), so why shouldn't I stick my toe into different waters?