It’s hard to believe it’s been 3 years since I last wrote.  My last post was called “the return of me” or something equally as lofty.  It’s hard for me to even go back and read those old posts.  That person isn’t me any longer.  My renewed hope over my father’s response to treatment was short-lived and he died that same year.  My mother’s mild dementia spiraled downward after the loss of the love of her life and I went from being a daughter to being a care-taker.  My sons moved to another city for work and school, my husband’s job kept him on the road most of the time, and our dog died.  My gray hair seemed to sprout out of nowhere and my hands reminded me of my mother’s.  You get the picture.

I wandered around my big empty house, randomly cleaning closets and painting rooms.  I convinced myself I was getting things done.  I was wrong, though.  I was just passing time.  My creative juices seemed dried up and I was afraid to sit down at my computer and prove to myself that my writing days were over.

Maybe I was depressed.  Maybe I was going through a mid-life crisis.  Maybe I was frozen by anxiety.  Maybe I was angry.  Maybe all of those things.  Call it what you will; there are transformative times in our lives where you either come out the other side beaten and broken or…just different.  I’m just different now.  I’m not better, necessarily, or healed or rejuvenated.  I’m just different.

I’m ready to try writing again but I don’t even know what it will look like.  I still love romance, I still love the paranormal, I still love history.  Will the emotion and the tenor be different, though?  Will I still love happy endings?  I’m not sure yet but I’m ready to give it another go.