It is hard, isn't it to write what really counts? We can sidle with words, strike a pose.

But I find that if I do not come back to write about about my real life, if I am not honest in words, then the words are denied me when I want them. Words of fiction are a reward for inner honesty.

Of course writing about my actual self is not fun the way Navyboys are fun. Fiction is like making a salad, everything put in gently, plump alive and green. This other, is work with a boning knife; cutting down, into what is or was alive.

You may notice I have not put a lot of fiction up recently.

It has all been harder of late. Bits of stories come, I am too tired, too preoccupied to reach for them. And if you don't take them and work them, they stop coming. (That much is true about the muse, though I don't really believe in her.)

Nothing is really worse here. Daughter finished high school, son is getting ready to leave. Husband taking summer classes. I am different. My steps slowed, my voice flattened, the sadness swells my throat, the tears behind my face. I have to push it down, or it will swamp me entirely. (Heeling over, heavy in the troughs between the waves water on the deck... I have to run before it, ride it out. Not get knocked sideways.) Words help. Words always help.

And I hope I have not worried anyone. I hope I have made sense. There will be fiction again. Salad days ahead. I just had to write this first.