(I wrote this yesterday, and then I got caught up in eating dinner and whatnot.)
The house is full of the smell of bitter chocolate.
Keith went shopping this morning, to spare me the extra walking.
I tried going for a walk yesterday. Jesus is my God, but walking is my church service.
Tired of missing the service, I attempted to shove my feet into my sneakers, hobbled out the door and down the street.
I'm sure I looked pathetic, gimping along, arms out stretched, expression alternating between relief, joy and pain.
After ten minutes, I had to turn around and make my lurching way back. I must admit, I screamed out loud when I finally got my sneaker off.
The result was so bad that when Keith came home, he swept me off to the emergency room, demonstrating once again his take-no-prisoner's approach to my health.
At the emergency room we waited three hours and then left for greener pastures; ie the Tricare offices.There I finally got in the system but still couldn't see a doctor.
We went and got Whoppers instead. So much more satisfying and reliable.
My foot turned out fine- my wound is not infected. It continues to improve on its own ridiculously slow rate.
No more walking for me, even to do grocery shopping. I am house bound.
In any case, Keith came back with two cartons of strawberries. They inspired me to try some sort of chocolate shortcake construction- since, in the dessert department, those are pretty much the only flavors my husband enjoys.
How could I go wrong?
I don't know yet. Hopefully, not far wrong.
A tray of chocolate crumbles is cooling on the stove top. Soon they will make up a chocolate cookie crust, which will get layered with a chocolate butter cream frosting, strawberries and white chocolate pudding, with more strawberries.
Am I bored, or just hungry or what?
I'm blocked, that's what- I've got the worst case of writer's block, ever. I've no idea what inspires me to write anymore.
Not the same things, that's for sure. I'm not interested in fantasy.
Well I am, but only because sometimes real life seems better than a fantasy.
Or, fantasy was the language I used when I wasn't sure what I was talking about. Only I didn't realize it at the time.
In a breakthrough attempt, I tried a free writing exercise to shake loose some inspiration somewhere.
Guess what inspires me? Three guesses.
That's right: God.
Awesome. I cannot think of a more impossible subject to write about.
My fantasy stories clothed the idea of God in lots of different disguises, so I could explore the themes I needed to without being explicit about them.
Should I embrace this idea fully, and just write an allegory?
Ugh. When I think about allegory, all I can think of is the dreary disappointment of Pilgrim's Progress. Where was the romance in that story, the mystery, the beauty?
Maybe I should just write.