Ghost of Christmas in July

I haven't been around in a while. Or hardly at all this month. The few times I have been here, I was drunk.

It’s been a quiet month. Lonely, and tired. I do my usual routine each day. And every night, after Baby Girl's in bed, instead of going to sleep and waking up at a decent time, say three or four am, to come in and write, read, blog, etcetera, I stay up watching hours of Scrubs, my newfound obsession. I pass out around midnight and sleep till morning. Repeat.

It's not that I'm through writing, though. In fact, I've decided I'm not even through with the novel. A few weeks of being away from it...stepping back, and seeing the forest, not the trees, I've realized that there are whole trees missing. Big gaping clearings of land where something else could grow. I think I’ll write three more parts to it. From three different points of view.

Besides, the forty-four thousand words of actual prose (I nearly killed myself writing six thousand words of filler just to win NaNoWriMo) would never be enough for an actual novel. If I add the three parts, that would make it a legitimate size and length. Worth my time to edit. Which I'll do six weeks after I finish.

So writing wise: I’m booked up well into the new year.

Life wise: I dread Christmas. I’ve been busy decorating, planning, making lists, and procrastinating on shopping. I have twenty people to buy for, and how I‘ll afford that, I’m not sure. I feel guilty every year for not having nicer gifts for everyone. Though some years, I have no gifts at all.

My online life: As I mentioned, I haven’t been around. I feel as if I’m turning into a ghost who has nothing left to say. Nothing to offer. I’m not a good friend, so why should anyone care? I would be, though, if I were ever here.

Back to real life: Baby Girl is doing fine.

I think my sister may be pregnant.

My Mom was sitting at home the other night when someone knocked on her door. As late as it was, she was scared, and leaned against it in her bathrobe, asking, Who’s there? She heard mumbling. She asked again. More mumbling. Finally, she opened the door, and there was my father, screaming, Landshark!

It warms my heart when they act silly like that, and have moments that remind them of their past.

As for me: I drove out to the cemetery yesterday and tucked a note into my Grandfather’s World War II stone. There’s a space between the top, where the writing is, and the bottom, which is essentially just a box made to look like a stone. I wrote Merry Christmas, and I love you, to them both. I folded it up and slid it in. I was surprised to see there’s still no grass on my Grandmother’s side. It won’t grow there. Still red, and muddy, what with all the recent rain. The heat. I drove home in overalls, tank top and sunglasses, pretending it was summer. Wishing I was still lost in its love.

I’m lost somewhere else now. The holidays. The rushing. The ending of a year.

It’s almost over and I’m scared. Glad. A million contradicting things in my heart and head. I wish I was George Bailey on a bridge with an angel to show me all the good parts of life. I’m tired, I’d tell him. He’d put his arms around me and walk me straight home through the snow. Inside, Baby Girl would say, Every time a bell rings, grass grows on a grave. I’d say, That’s right. That’s right. Wink at the sky, and smile.