Fast Fiction

Maybe I’ve been a little scared of throwing myself back into writing again.

A lot of things have happened in the last year. I’m only 37 and it turns out that I’m not immortal. In fact, my body is quite fallible. The bronchitis that never ended earlier this year (and the torn intercostals that still bugged me until about six weeks ago), the operation and long recovery. It’s all too much, though it’s all ended well. I think I’ve been living in my body too much lately and I need to move back into my mind.

I had some wonderfully vivid dreams last night. I didn’t sleep well, not deeply.

In one of them I went to see my brother, who had just moved. He was working as the manager of an apartment complex and lived there with his family (I don’t know what kind of apartment complex has four bedroom apartments like that though). He was showing me around the place, and started to feed his dog, Bailey. As he did that, I played with his other dog, Abbey.

Abbey was a great dog, a huge lug - she was a cross between a German shepherd and a golden retriever. She was only eleven when she was put down earlier this year because of bone cancer. She also had diabetes and hip dysplasia. She had one of the great dog lives - living with other dogs and great humans. She was a damn happy pooch and I haven’t been back to visit my brother since she was put down earlier this year.

But in the dream as he fed Bailey, I gave Abbey a great big petting, down on the floor, full body rub, scratching ears and everything. My brother didn’t see her, and I knew she really wasn’t there. But I got to say goodbye, if only in my dreams.

I have no idea what that means. But I think some of it has to do with the dog actually being gone and some of it probably has to do with my surgery and a lot of it has to do with not feeling present for the noveling this year.

I haven’t started my novel yet. I will start my novel. I must start my novel.

I’m going to go start my novel.