IT'S NOT THAT I DON'T WANT TO BLOG...

..... because I do, really I do.  It's just that I have a couple of tiny glimmers of hope about my book, and of course I'm obsessed about them and can't focus very well on anything else.  But I can't talk about the glimmers because they might result in absolutely nothing.  So I'm trying to hold off on blogging until I have some news to share, but since as a practical matter that might take years, decades, eons, then I need to just post something so you folks know I haven't succumbed to some dreadful fate.  God, I love that word succumbed, don't you?  It hints of a succubus, as well as of a cucumber, as well as of Benedict Cumberbatch, and who doesn't love a good cucumber succubus as portrayed by Sherlock Holmes himself?  No one I'd care to know, that's for damn sure.
     So here I am, posting. And do you want to know what the word "posting" reminds me of?  It reminds me of the English riding lessons I took for years, several times a week, until I stopped 25 years ago when I found out that I was pregnant with my son.  Posting is what you do when you're riding English and your horse is trotting, which is the most uncomfortable gait for a rider, and so with every trot, the rider rises slightly in the saddle to prevent his or her butt from just slamming down into the saddle.  I always loved horses, but I never became that great of a rider and never learned that much about horsemanship.  But I suppose that when you ride Western, you just get used to your butt slamming into the saddle every time your horse trots.  And if that's the case, why, I believe I would rather post, thank you very much.
     Speaking of my son, his spring break is this week, and he'll be coming home tomorrow for a few days, and that will be fabulous.  I wish I could remember when I last saw him, but I do know that it feels like it was a very long time ago.  But then, it always feels like that, a constant, low-grade missing of him, and I suspect it will never stop feeling like that, and that that's the price one pays for loving someone so much and watching from afar as he learns to take possession of his adult life.  It's such a privilege, this kind of missing.  It signals that things are working as they should be.
     Right-o.  That's it for now.  Thanks for following along with my brain drippings this evening, and I 'll try to pretend to be more functional next time around.