Caring for my cancer-stricken Grandma was less difficult than watching my mother cry. I don't know why that is. Except when she's in pain, my grandma seems cheerful and relaxed, albeit lazy. My mother's emotions seem more intense. I can't imagine losing a parent myself. Or dying. I find myself observing closely, storing memories for a day (hopefully far in the future) when I may have to crack them open for my own benefit. In the meantime, I try to be as comforting and accomodating as I can be.
Miraculously, I kept afloat of my writing. I completed my poems for the week and added 15,000 words to the rough draft of my second novel. I wrote whenever my grandma napped or any other sliver of time I could find. My writing went slow, but it went. I'm grateful for that.
I'm surprised I've been able to churn out so many poems. In college I could hardly write a poem a week. I'd delve deep into my soul, and after two weeks, my soul would run dry. But this month, I found a way around it. I just don't write about myself. I make up stories or jot down observations or play with language--but I don't cut a vein and drain my life's blood onto the page. Why should I? That's not the kind of story I want to write.
Three weeks into NaNoWriMo, and most of my March Brainstorming Notes are now useless. The story turned while writing. The plot went wild on me. I don't consider it a bad thing. I like it when stories get a mind of their own. I like it when they go in unexpected ways. Oddly, when this happens, I see all sorts of interesting connections start tying together. The story seems to know where it's going, even if I don't. I hope that's the case. I have one week left to write up an ending. Let's hope the muse continues to follow me.
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