It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. 

Things are getting Dickensian over here at #writerslifebootsstyle

Bek, the Writer, and her boots #getyourbootson are fondly casting longing glances at each other, their love affair on hold due to the recent gall bladder intervention of 2019. 

The Muse will not shut up or sleep. Even dreams are stories that stay with the writer after I wake and scramble to make notes. Writers will know that any idea dreamt of and conjured in that half-light, that can be remembered in the cold light of day, and STILL sound like a good story line to work on, is worth capturing ASAP. You don’t risk losing an idea like that to #reality. At the moment the Muse is a torrent of words and ideas. They just aren’t any of them the SAME  idea or book, they are all new and shiny. The literary equivalent of butterflies. 

The gall bladder is gone and healing commences… except the writer is a dumb shit who keeps thinking she’s super tough and because she has lived and breathed a construction role AND also live with arthritis for over 25 years now, she is a superwoman, and therefore does dumb shit. 

The Writer has two Rhodesian Ridgeback puppies that are just months old. #theridgebacksandthewriter 

They are full of cuddles, and love, and claws and teeth, and excitement and exuberance. They are also still inclined to jump, claw, chew, bounce, and generally get as close to the writer’s lap as they can, which if course the writer allows as they are divine and gorgeous cuddle-puddles of joy. They are also 24 & 29 kgs respectively and, as it turns out, when you apply a physics angle (mass X acceleration =force) you get a lot of weight straining against you when you hold one back at the vets while the other gets needles. 

As it also turns out, when you get told that you shouldn’t lift anything, it should also include a braider definition such as also don’t use those muscles in any way that creates the same effect – potentially for muscles and more surgery – please fuck no) as, say, holding back 25-ish kilos of pure intent in a fourlegged package. 

Like I said stupid shit. Writer is dumb. 

But, wait. There’s more. 

So Dickensian, it is winter days in Sth East Qld where the writer lives and so along with that gloom, the sourness that comes with pain, and self flagellation that makes wrestling the beast much more fascinating , the actual and real need to rest and recover from both stupidity and actions, the need to write, and the cumulative effect of causing a check out from reality for a day or two… Comes the Ghost of Arthritis Present… 

It turns up unannounced and picks something, anything, like a bastard magician, and pronounces…

TADA!!!!!

YOU forgot about me didn’t you. That’s okay, I will find you!  I’m you forever friend and I will never leave you. I love you so much, I’m under your skin, in your joints, I’m best friends with your genetics and I’m spontaneous as fuck. I’m here, right here, hanging out with your cells, and I will never desert you. 

This time arthritis bring milk and cookies and a hip out of alignment. Tomorrow, after the writer has rested, as insisted upon by the Ghost of Gall Stones Passed, it will bring scrambled eggs for breakfast along with lower back pain and a flared shoulder.

 Probably shouldn’t have enjoyed those 8 hours of solid sleep without moving. Mmm-mmmm.

No sirree girly. You know me better than that. I just waited, you needed the sleep and I just waited. I’m here for you now try and relax and take it easy, you’ve been through a lot. 

BECAUSE MIGHT I REMIND YOU – YOU DUMBASS – THAT YOU HELD BACK A COMBINED FORCE OF OVER 50KGS THREE WEEKS AFTER SURGERY TO REMOVE AND ORGAN AND YOU THOUGHT YOU’D GET AWAY WITH IT…?????

YOU’RE A GODDAMNED ENGINEER WHO KNOWS ABOUT FORCES AND WEIGHTS AND YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD DEFY PHYSICS. ACTUAL SCIENCE IS GONNA TURN UP ON YOUR DOORSTEP TOMORROW AND KICK YOUR ASS. 

As my hair blows back from my face and my eyebrows climb upwards to hide in my hairline, due to the wind velocity aimed at my face, and as I involuntarily clench the core muscles, that I had effectively not used in years, but had decided that because I couldn’t, I would, so I did, and then I paid for it, as I, the Writer, contemplate these characters in my life and that fucking bitch Muse that has given them a goddamn literary voice, here I am.  In a bit of pain.
BUT 
Still writing, channeling some Shakespearean melodrama combined with a Dickensian flavour to give her voice to the reality of that disabled writers life. The one that can’t write everyday but sure can create. The artist who paints her pain and lives in her dreams. The poet who dissects the social effect of words and uses them forcefully to provoke, and the advocate who learned how to speak when there was no one who did for them.

I’m here.  

Probably just reading for a while now, because, you know, hurting.  Mmmmm reading…. #booksniffer 

I need a benefactor. So Dickensian, however Charles Dickens was someone that I could get away with reading when I was young and I devoured books and so Great Expectations was a real eye opener for me.. 

It sucked to be Pip and it sucked to be me. 

Pip had no parents and I wished I had no parents. 

Pip lived in the streets, I lived in a caravan that my father felt was fine to park anywhere as we trekked across the country several times over, therefore sleeping next to a lot of road signs. 

The similarities were amazing, astonishing. Dickens described the mood of my life so accurately I immediately realised that Pip was really a girl and that girl was me and I just needed to keep an eye out for that benefactor. Soooo yeah that didn’t happen, but what it did do was make me realise that, while fiction, there was a lot to be said for sharing experience. Not only was I shown a comparative set of circumstances I was relating to my own life, I was shown hope. 

I only realise this later, and even more so since my eye has turned to writing as a craft, that these are the things that reading gave me. 

A long list of coping skills because I copied these books characters to develop courage and confidence and a voice and a way to articulate. 

Writing sure takes it to whole NEW level, but reading. 

Reading takes you places where there is hope. And people like you. And people not like you but who you could maybe wanna be like one day. Or live like. Or you can take a combination of all these friends you have collected on the way and choose each character piece, a small charm from each and make yourself a character charm bracelet. On any given day do I want to be the Writer or the Ghost of Gall Stone Passed?  The bug or the windshield? 

Am I the Muse or am I the amused? And why can’t I be both? And have a third choice? No matter who in my life is visiting today, I, the writer, make it work. 

It is my art, it is my craft, it is my skill, my superpower, my bane, and my talent. 

And these are days of my writers life…

And so now to rest, to sleep, perchance, to dream….

And minimise joint movement.