Last night Bryan asked me what I do during the day and the answer was everything and nothing. I look for jobs, I apply for jobs, I clean the house, I write blog posts, I do laundry, garden, pay bills. I wrote a children's book that has, at last count, been rejected by 11 publishers. What does anyone do really? On days that Zoey is not in school I am a mother. These things take time, I tell myself. It's a tough job market, everyone else tells me. You are eligible for a reduction in interest rates, says the automated voice at the other end of the telemarketer call I get every morning at 10am. It's been 9 months.
I do not watch daytime tv; nothing is more depressing to me than the sounds of Wheel! Of! Fortune! Vanna White and Pat Sajak, the ding of those plastic letters slowly turning. Instead I wait while somewhere the goddess Fortuna spins, Rota Fortunae, the capricious nature of my fate like the moon not of my control.
If anyone were to ask what I would do with 9 months off my answer would be easy: write a book. Fiction. Not a children's book, although that's okay, too. No, I have always wanted to write a book and yet here I am, 9 months later, the time it takes to gestate a life and I have nothing but a house clean and lavender bushes. Nobody to blame but myself.
I hate that I have waited. That I am scared. That there are a million things about this and me that I do not understand. Waxing and waning. What the fuck do I write??? 9 months from now it will be May and I will be well on my way to 38. I will have finished knitting a scarf, my house will be clean, the lavender will be purple from the rain. 9 months from now will be 9 months from now regardless of whether I have shit or gotten off the proverbial pot once and for all, constipated, the ding of the plastic letters lit up to answer the puzzle correctly.