I have been so distracted lately.
Today I should be cleaning frantically in preparation for my parents, who are coming to visit over Thanksgiving. But it's hard to do that, because I feel so pleasantly laid back about the whole thing.
Parents are the best sort of guests. I can try all kinds of ridiculous recipes and not be worried if they fall flat, because, hey! It's Mom and Dad.
Being who they are, they both would have been helping me cook it and Dad probably would have altered the recipe in such a way that it was no longer recognizable (and yet also better) and Mom would insist that it tasted wonderful no matter what.
Still, I really should be doing some housework...
I keep getting this strange feeling. It's as if I've just put this really interesting story down somewhere and wandered away, and now I want to find it so I keep reading it.
And then I remember that I'm not reading it, I'm writing it. And then I feel exhausted, because damn it, writing it is so much work.
The entire plot line of the allegory has somehow become nothing more than an introduction to this whole other story that remains a mystery.
I make no progress on that story because I have to write this one scene and I'm refusing to write the scene and so nothing gets done.
Instead, I spent all my time writing other stories that don't require as much from me. That's the story I keep thinking I've put down somewhere.