Redolent[1]

I’ve emerged into the light. Nearing the end of a book (writing or sometimes reading one) is like surfacing after a wicked and bitter winter to the pleasantness of spring.

I’m giddy with the potential of new life and I’m discovering a writing voice that echoes my capricious nature and follows every wisp and whimsy. The words just can’t keep up.

My new voice dodges life’s blows and rolls with the punches. The words are a little less bruised and banged up and are a lot less vindictive. I am discovering a new way to relate in a positive and uplifting manner.

To me:
The husband and the father disagree with me, but they do agree with each other that my writing voice echoes with confusion and mirrors my take on reality. T.
I don’t know what is coming next in life—or in this book—and that adds a sort of dodgy uncertainty that could be exciting. I’m playing a sports match and I duck and block the shots from nowhere that would K.O. my plans for each day. Heretofore these blows could have put me down for the count, but now, I’m up for it.

To me,
This book fulfills my narcissistic need to explain how beleaguered souls live in the real world. The husband thinks it may only serve the urge I have to rewind the video and relive the knock-out blow. But for whatever its purpose, the book achieves it.

My hope is that in the end, you will know as well as I do what it is that I’m doing. Hopeless, T.

Reality Bite: Duck at all warning whistles.

[1] Rife with fragrance, aromatic or malodorous.