The Only Constant is Change

rose bwThis week has been an interesting one. Rough in some ways. Bumpy at times. There have even been times when the road was smooth, but unfamiliar.

To start things off, my uncle Harry died last weekend. (He was Harry to some, but Art to me.) Anyway, he was 86 and he’d lived a full life. His last year hadn’t been easy as he struggled with cancer, and nobody wanted to see him continue to suffer. But even with all that, the moment of passing isn’t easy. It’s a bittersweet time, and though you wouldn’t call him back to his illness, you miss the man he used to be.

Just as I was adjusting to that bit of news, my editor called to tell me that since she’s working with another line now and her workload is getting extremely heavy, she is going to have to lighten her load. And that means that I’m being reassigned to a new editor.  Again, not shocking. Not even unexpected. From the minute I heard that she was working with the other line last year, I knew this day was coming. But I like Kathleen. I like her a lot. She won my heart completely the day she told me that if I needed to work a certain way, even if that way was somewhat unconventional, I should “run with it like a small boy in a field.” I mean, what’s not to love about an editor who thinks that way???

Luckily, I met the other Superromance editors last year at the RWA national conference in Dallas, and I had an absolutely delightful luncheon with them all. I don’t use the word “delightful” lightly, either. From the minute we left the hotel until the minute we returned, we laughed…a lot. Even when we ended up lost on the wrong end of Dallas with a cab driver who didn’t know his way around the city, we laughed. So I know that no matter which editor I find myself working with, I’ll be in good hands.

Boulder Pub DomThen my daughter came home from work one night to tell me that as she was pulling out of the parking lot, she hit a rock. A BIG rock. A rock that sort of tore her front bumper off her car–most of the way, anyway. Luckily, she and her friends found a way to rig it back in place, but a dangling bumper isn’t what we need right now.

Somehow I messed up the timer on the automatic sprinkling system so that my sprinklers were running all day long. Luckily we got some moisture over the winter, and that has helped pull us out of the 6-year drought we’ve been in–which means I didn’t get fined for having my water run at the wrong time of day. But I also couldn’t get my head working right. I’d stand there and look at that command post with all its plusses and minutes and setting stations, and every time I tried to adjust it, all I did was make it worse.

Fought with the insurance company all week over my daughter’s coverage. That’s never fun. Not even fun enough to blog about. It wasn’t what I needed this week at all.

Neither were the two rear tires with nails embedded in them, which is what I learned I had today when I stopped in after Uncle Art’s funeral to get my oil changed because…well, when else was I going to have the time?  So I’m standing there in the waiting area, watching the guys through the window. I poke my head out the door and ask them to check my tire pressure. All part of the service they assure me. A few minutes later, they beckon for me to come closer. Lookie there. Nails in both back tires. Oh, and did you notice the tread on your front tires?  Come take a look at that. . .

Tomorrow, I’m going to take a restorative drive into the mountains. I need it. I’m a mountain girl at heart, and no matter how much I love small coastal towns (and I love small coastal towns) I’m not sure I could be truly happy if I had to live very far from the mountains. As for tonight, I’m just hoping I can get through until morning without any new roadblocks cropping up.

But maybe all those roadblocks are life. I’m not the same person this Friday night as I was last Friday night. Too much life has happened since then. And for those of us who write novels, the roadblocks are what our books are created from.

So what’s a dangling bumper or two?  I guess in some weird way, it’s the stuff our dreams are made of.

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