So I went to the Anderson Center for two weeks. Fell in a hole of writing and hanging with other excellent writers and artists. Finished a first draft for Book #2, which I'd been bumbling around with since last May. Went to the Adult Detention Center and taught two writing classes. Ran and biked along the Cannon Valley Trail. Went to see The Hunger Games and Prometheus in the classy Red Wing 8 Theater. Ate a lot of great meals I didn't prepare myself. It was a lovely two weeks.
Which made re-entry into my normal life hard. I came back Friday and all I could do was nap. And marvel at all the shit I needed to deal with.
Then we had Father's Day, where the mister acquired a new-old motorcycle, which is pretty cool-looking (nice faring, which is my main sticking point) and involved him ditching an older motorcycle out of our garage. The kids went fishing. My mom and sister and I played one million games of Dutch Blitz. We had shish kebab.
Now I'm teaching a fiction class at The Loft. Matilda's at Girl Scout Camp having something called Greek Week. Where they search for hidden garden gnomes, tie-dye shirts, learn archery and end it all Friday with Chariot Races. NOT KIDDING. At least she's amused.
There are too many things happening this summer. We're going to France at the end of July. I'm teaching forty million classes. Then I go to Tacoma to suck ass in a half-marathon and do my third grad school residency. I feel like I will look up and summer will have vanished.
In the meantime, I will be thinking about Book #2. Plotting ways to get back into it, to edit and revise. Probably falling out of love with it, too. There is something so busy-making about living two lives like this. First your real life, where everything's boring and rushed and you're out of toilet paper and groceries and the dog needs a walk. Then your fake life, where everything's a mess but lovely and somehow much easier to contemplate.