Don't be alaramed.

Sorry if I left you hanging,
I'm getting all my work done,
And I'm not pregnant,
Not to worry.
I don't know exactly what I'm writing, but I am writing, Its supposed to be fiction, so I just change the names, or at least my name.
It is all a challenge, its a challenge to write things longer than one page, its a challenge to write things that are meant to be read, not heard, not driven between bleeding center down spots.
But, I think I'm doing a pretty good job.
I think anything that meets a deadline is a job well done.
And then I have days where anything other than being buried alive is a job well done.
And that's just the workshop, then there's theory, and magazine production, and the assistant ship.
So, its a full plate.
But, the alternative is slinging half cooked eggs to white people's flat strollers, and I will not stand for that.
This is nothing new,
This is the same old eye on the prize.
Its getting cold in this place.
I've already had two packages of alka seltzer plus.
The sensitive place behind my eye teeth, in the ridges of my soft palette, tell me its going to be a long winter.
I'll take it.
I'll take it all.
I'll take the hair pulling, and the chapped lips, and the 1000 pages a night, and the attached files, and the  pipes bursting, and the wet socks, I'll take it.
And then someday we'll walk a cobblestone street in the south of France for no reason at all, and we wont be impressed by the architecture, and we wont pay any never mind to the chocolate, or the art.
We'll just walk back to our hotel, and they'll be expecting us, and open the door for us, and we'll laugh all the way up the stairs, and we'll strip down to our socks, and twist our limbs around the silk and flannel bedding, and listen to people arguing outside our window, and fall asleep warm in each other's arms, cozy with age, and fine wine.
Sharp,
Skin & Toast