Friday

Friday. Blue skies and frost glittering on the grass in the Long Back Yard.

Yesterday was a Writing Day. Today will be more of the same. No, I don't know how it's going. Welcome to my life.

Speaking of which . . .

Those who have been following along for the last while will perhaps have noticed that a little over a year ago, my partner, best friend, co-author, second brain, and emotional support Steve died.

I am not, and I know this very well, the only person who has endured this awful loss. Surviving a beloved partner's death, going forward -- even deciding if one wishes to go forward -- this process is many things, but there's one thing it isn't.

It's not a competition. Having taken the decision to go forward, one does what one must, or at least what seems good and productive to do. As we are all different, your methods will be different from mine.

I have had people who are before me on this road turn and take the time to tell me that I'm doing fine, and that I take as an inducement to courage from someone who has already traveled the rough bit I'm just getting to.

But -- survival is not a competition. I can't say this enough, apparently.

When I was at BaltiCon -- boy, that was a hard thing to do, but it had to be done, I decided, and so I ... managed. I hid in my room a lot. I didn't do the parties; I didn't go to panels that I wasn't on. I recruited myself for necessary tasks.

So, while I was at BaltiCon being a half-coward, a colleague told me that I was doing so well. Much better, in fact, than another colleague who had also recently lost their partner and was being publicly and (in the opinion of the first colleague) embarrassingly noisy about it. Which -- no. There is No Correct Way to Grieve. I've been plenty noisy, and expect to be so again, the road being twisty and misty like it is. Neither I nor my colleague in craft and loss are doing better than the other. We're surviving. Day by day, and sometimes minute by minute.

Life wants to live. If you're still standing after receiving what ought to have been a fatal strike, and you've decided to take the Road Forward, I won't lie to you -- it's hard.

I won't lie to you -- you're doing fine.

We're fellow travelers. Not competitors.

In which Happy Hour is Unreasonably Delayed

Didn't get as much done today as I had wanted, mostly because my hands hurt. I actually stopped working at one point, heated up the ol' therapy mittens and watched a bread episode of the Great British Baking Show while they therapeutically warmed my hands.

I'm knocking off for the day, and will be watching Maigret on Masterpiece Theater. It's been decades since I've read Georges Simeon, and while Maigret wasn't a favorite, he'll do in a pinch.

Hopefully, my hands will be less ouchy tomorrow.

On the plus side of the day, I thought I remembered that Jermone Joyita had come from "Wick's World," but I looked it up anyway, and it turns out I was wrong. He came from The Wikesworlds or "The Wickes," but since this was a passing detail in Dragon Ship, I think I can be a little proud of myself.

Rook is marching back and forth in my office, shouting "Yowr!" and Utterly Rejects the notion that he has to wait A! Whole! Hour! for Happy Hour. I gather the idea is that we ought to have TWO Happy Hours on Friday.

. . . and Saturday . . . and Sunday . . . and Monday . . . and --

Yeah. Nice try, kid.

Anyhoot.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe. Tomorrow is also a writing day -- glares at universe -- so check-ins may be anywhere from odd-houred to absent.

YOWR! says Rook.