I am not a good writer by any stretch. And I can prove it if I haven’t already. But, I rarely lack for topics. Usually I can come up with something to say, however inane it might be. It is not because I am creative so much as it is the unusual-for-us lifestyle that we have chosen just naturally provides a lot of material.
But the February blahs, the source of personal conflicts in the community and mild, light-deprived depression in the home is somewhat aggravated by limited activities. I don’t want to gird my loins and venture into DIY land just to get wet and cold and not get anything meaningful accomplished at the end. Or an incident to relate. That just seems masochistic.
Sal is generally more game than me. She is a ‘keener’ for just about anything outside that involves dogs, boats or putting things in order. Get the dogs sitting side by side in the boat while towing a log to the beach is her idea of pure bliss, weather be damned. Me? Not so much.
I need projects. Firstly, we need projects for the burgeoning empire. Kinda like manifest destiny writ small. Secondly, I need projects because I am still enjoying the ‘fruits-of-my-labour’ syndrome that is so often missing from modern, urban employment. I like saying, “Well, sweetie, here’s your new towel rack. A bit crooked and loose but it will hold a towel.”
And I especially like hearing in response, “Oh, sweetie-pie, thanks so much. It looks great. Are you going to remove that bent nail and get rid of the grease or do you want me too? Oh, my big, cuddly handyman. Want some tea after all that hard work?”
But the real motivation to do anything for me is that I generate something to write about. I have spared you all the Chronicles of Blood series (accidents, mishaps, injuries and self-abuse) but, except for that gruesome portion of our lives up here, I have described life as it comes. So, for that to happen, it has to keep coming.
And, in February, it pretty much slows down.