It's been a frenzied week. I took on an editing job with a content site. Not the classiest gig in town, so it shall remain nameless, but I made $100 since last week this time and I haven't even reached the quota yet. Since my daughter arrived home for two extra years of college with a diamond ring and plans to marry––originally in two years, now possibly one––the money will come in handy. My plan is to work to meet my quota in 15 hours a week, leaving some bit of time, after doing what I need to for my Mom and our business, to devote to my own writing.
Funny how the lack of time leads to desire. Recently I'd had trouble motivating myself to write creatively. Now I crave it.
Hard to believe, with all that is going on here, that it was just one year ago, yesterday, that my Dad passed away. Everything is so different this year. Last April was so rainy they had to put plywood down at the grave site for us to walk on. He was hospitalized the entire month, going back and forth between rehab centers and nursing homes as we stressed about the day they'd put him out and we'd have to arrange care for him at home.
This year the warm weather started intermittently in March, providing plenty of days to repair all the snow damage before the weeds poked their heads out and mulching time came around. Today was unseasonably warm in the high 80s and tomorrow will be 90. Too warm to work outside, especially as our bodies aren't accustomed to it yet. But the evening was a rare treat. Everywhere you walk through our neighborhood the air is literally perfumed with azalea blossoms, and the lilacs are on their way. The night was clear with just a few wisps of clouds, I sat on the patio listening to the birds singing their last songs of the day.
It's nice to just breath it in sometimes and appreciate the moment. To spend some time outdoors without looking for weeds to pull or leaves to rake. To think about where we are and where we've been.
That, to me, is a writer's paradise.