I'm at a loss. I don't know how to recapture attention. Maybe I fell into too deep of a rut, and everyone turned away. I thought I was switching things up last week by throwing a fictional curve ball, but it didn't do the trick. This has happened before, nearly every winter when we denizens of Smith Park burrow in for the cold months when very little is happening outside. I'm not doing all sorts of crazy activities this month, or at least haven't been thus far, and I've had to dig deep into my imagination for compelling subjects. It doesn't seem to be working. My metrics for how well I'm reaching people tell me that I'm failing to get beyond a core circle. I suppose I need to do a little research, find out what I need to be writing about that people want to read. I try not to harp on the lupus too much, because even though that might be educational and a public service to people who need to learn how to help others they know with chronic illness, it tends to feel like too much of a downer to me. I don't want to complain all the time, and sometimes even acknowledging that there was pain that I fought through seems like whining. Likewise, I don't know how much to write about the topic of writing (even though that's what this is). I do a lot of thinking out loud about it, breaking down the fourth wall as it were, and I'd love to go on for hours in that vein, but it also gets somewhat repetitive.
I wrote at length over the summer about the problems with my relationship. I feel like those posts should slow down while I am in a detente period. Nothing has turned the ship around completely, even though everyone is living here through spring, and we are being cordial and cooperating with each other. If anything changes, I will eventually return to that topic.
This leaves me with animal stories, doesn't it? I spend every minute of every day that I am in this house with a quadruped of some sort within arm's reach. Normally one or more felines is pressed up against my body somewhere, either on my lap, along the back of my chair, or pinning me under blankets in one room or another. It's natural that I'd include them in my daily writing as well. I'm never in a position where I don't feel like I'm under surveillance. There is always a monitor for my activities. Well, almost never. I stepped out of the shower today and found that I was the only one in the bathroom at that moment, which hasn't happened in months. Before I could fully get that thought processed in my mind, three cats came in to sit on the counter and ask why I hadn't filled their water glass next to the sink yet. The outside world is causing me too much stress to think about these days. I might end up retreating into pet stories more and more often, especially over the next week when the external stressors crank up to 11. If I spend more column space than seems appropriate fawning over how cute I think Athena's tiny, fluffy paws are, feel free to assume that there is something else that I just don't want to look at going on in the big outside world, so I'm focusing on what makes me feel much happier. Like paws. Tiny, black, fluffy paws.
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