a live circle

I’ve got three essays I’m working to rework. I’d like to make them more appealing; I’d like to find them good homes.

Three people share the house with me. At least for now my daughter is home and filling our rooms with artistic ideals. I engage gladly in conversations where ideas flow like rivers and even our differences provoke rich musings (sorry, my two men, it’s just never the same trying to cajole the latest inner discoveries from you).

A few years ago I mentioned to my son that now I needed to learn to write without a deadline. “Oh,” he said (and here I grant credit for great insight to a male in my life), “you’re writing under a live circle.”

That’s now. I was given a deadline earlier this year, and it was fun to meet. Mostly, though, I placed incentives on myself and accomplished several finished products besides the three essays mentioned above. I’ve sent the work out, and received a note from one fairly distinguished publisher that while they don’t have a place for my submitted piece, their volunteer readers liked it. (Readers are cool.)

I become more acquainted with a body transitioning into age, and I even check once in a while with professionals (is this supposed to do that? am I fairly normal, as far as can be?), and I appear to be doing okay.

I repeatedly encounter people who repeatedly ask, “How’s the novel coming?”, and I don’t know how to justify my existence. Often I fumble again through the litany – “Well, I tried a novel, then a memoir, and now I’m sending out essays and seeing what I can do.” (remember? I want to say, but how can I expect their adherence to a history I can’t even always keep straight?)

I recognize it’s really on me to decide if I’m valid or not. Whether or not a joyous writing feat emerges, I find myself under this live circle. It’s a good place. I don’t have a nine to five job with perks and benefits, but then, I don’t have a nine to five job. I’m available. I can yield to my needs; I can show up and be there for someone else’s.