It’s been a few weeks since my mormor died, and apart from a lack of interest in the next day-job project (go figure), I think I can say that I’m back to normal. Well, functioning.
Let’s say 80-85%. Which is pretty good given the last few years.
The support of friends and family helped.
The tribe helped. You know who you are.
The words helped. Since Inga decided to shuffle off this mortal coil, I’ve sold a trunk story that I truly loved, and a short, nasty piece that echoes the worst fears of Brexit — written a year before all that shit hit the fan.
I re-read Scott Lynch’s great caper fantasy, The Lies of Locke Lamora. I found myself caught up in the adventure, and actually laughing. I read Greg Bear’s master class in science fiction, Hull Zero Three. Plus, I fell down the rabbit hole of Max Gladstone’s Craft Sequence.
And I joined The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction as a First Reader. C.C. Finlay is a gentleman. And obsessed with scorpions.
It’s also summer, so that means a few extra hours of light and evening walks, which also helps.
I remember to meditate, and contemplate, and avail myself of mental health resources.
Hey, I even started making my own filmjölk again. So while things aren’t perfect, I can sit with a bowl, toss in some corn flakes and blueberries, and remember my grandmother.
Life goes on. Slowly. Breathing. Writing. It goes on.