Here's the thing about writing: Sometimes, you're just over it for a while. Eventually, though, it comes back, like a pesky younger sibling or a stubborn infection. You can rebuff it for a while by ignoring it or pretending it's cured, but you can never really get rid of it. It's just there, lurking, waiting for the right time to get all up in your face.
My return to the written word (if I ever really even left), manifested herewith, was prompted by another return: my return home. There's something in the water in Okemos, I suspect, or perhaps the fault (inspiration?) lies with my family members. There's nothing that puts words and ideas in your head quite like your relations.
Wherefore the absence? Chalk it up to the previously reported leaving of Virginia for Massachusetts and the directionless malaise that settles in after leaving a very intense and emotionally consuming job. Happily, I think I have rebounded nicely this week (but only after experiencing some malcontent last week after having to leave the aforementioned relations).
Now I am sitting at my desk in my sunny office/spare bedroom, sipping a cup of tea (a very writerly thing to do) with soy milk (a very vegan thing to do) and honey from my dad and stepmom's bees (a very unvegan thing to do), and waiting for a conference call. No, I didn't leave my job entirely. Loathe to burn the bridge with my first important employer, I opted to go freelance. It is divine (and so is Stash ginger peach green tea).
All this said, let us not delude ourselves that the written word is all there is to a happy future. I will let my husband's words remind us all that the future is very complex:
Him: This device I'm working on is the future of technology.
Me: It's the future of all technology?