Don’t call, and don’t come over. Everything is fine, no need to worry. I know you haven’t seen me around for a while. And the garden could use some water. No one swept the driveway after the windstorm, but trust me, there’s no problem, no issue. Except this one: I have a book to finish and the deadline looms on the near horizon. So, thank you for the invitation, but lunch is out of the question. Ditto a movie, a hike, or a fast trip to the coast for a couple of days.
No, I have not become a hermit and I am not lonely. I spend hours every day with dozens of people. Sure, they all spring from my own imagination, and yes I do talk out loud to them, and they talk back to me as well. That may not seem normal to you, but I’m a writer and that’s normal for me. Indeed, I wouldn’t make any progress with this book if all those imaginary voices didn’t chatter. At this point in their story they not only talk to me while I’m working, but sometimes they invade my dreams at night. Sometimes they set up such a racket during the day that I find it difficult to shut them up long enough to fall asleep, perchance to dream. About them.
The husband is fine as well. I’ll tell him you inquired about his wellbeing. He has, as he always does, picked up those chores I’ve abandoned for the duration. That should keep him busy enough, but he’s my first reader as well. It’s good to have a champion nitpicker as the first reader. He keeps a good supply of sticky notes and pencils stowed in random places, ready for those random times when I thrust sheaves of new pages his way. He does it all with good humor. Bless his heart, couldn’t get through without him, wouldn’t want to try.
I would love to stay and chat a bit longer, but as you know, there’s a looming deadline and I need to get back to work.
But thank you for your concern.