Are you bored of me yet? I am getting bored of me. Judging from the ups and downs of my subscribers you all are getting bored of me too.

But ha-ha! I am still struggling. Not through with all of this yet.

I had an exciting phone call tonight. A call which requires me being out in the evening (again) writing some kind of proposal. So elusive. It's not really worth spilling about here.

I enjoyed writing the minutia of my day yesterday. Amazed at how the day just kept going and going with barely a moment to relax.

I feel like i'm driving without a license. I don't know what i am doing, where i am going or how to parallel park when i want to stop and smell the flowers. Life is just a continuing round of new jobs/chores/activities every ten minutes. I'm sure if i went to bed when the commotion of the day stopped i would be a little happier. Not left to sit and ponder. But then i wouldn't see the beautiful moon that is happening.

Tomorrow i am going skating on a pond in a friends yard in the midnight full moon glow.

Then she would sway into the kitchen, her skirt following behind her. Sexy and simple. I loved her so much in those moments. I would linger in her bedroom. Fingering through her lacy bras, trying on her high heels, using her make-up brushes – brushing the remnants of colour onto my cheeks and eyes. Searching through her jewelry box. Trying on big red glass rings and long chains of fake pearls. Reading our medical bracelets from the hospital when we were born. Examining all the little baby teeth she had stored in an envelope in there. She even had old coins from England that she had brought with her when she immigrated in 1945.

And i am working and working.

I am not doing anything silly.

Can't chocolate make you feel better and be bad for you?

Or wine?

Or staying up too late?

Or letting your kids watch too much TV?

That's not really what i was talking about. But good possibilities.

I am lost in this november push. The best thing is that i haven't even thought about christmas yet, oops, just did. With thanksgiving having come and gone over a month ago, it's different for us canadians. The season doesn't start until december 1st and anything holidayish i see before then just makes me bitter.

xx
jess

My relationship with **** was manic. Strained for days, weeks on end, then suddenly everything would be okay again for a while. We could stay up late into the evening. Talking, laughing, drinking wine. Becoming friends again. Becoming lovers again. His fingers softly tracing the scars on my belly, kissing me softly. Knowing that I still needed to be taken care of, to be loved, to be a woman. Not just a mother.

And that’s how life would go. Ebbing and flowing. Endless ups and downs. And all the while I would be a mother. Taking the best care of my children that I could. Filled with the same doubts that most mothers feel. Was I doing my best. Thinking at night of all the things I didn’t do or didn’t do well and how I would try harder the next day. I would be a better mother the next day.

NaNoWriMo. Plugging along. I don't think i'm going to finish by the end of the month. But, that's okay. It's coming together in a way i never imagined.

It's actually a story. A story i hope someone will read.

My word count for NaNoWriMo is falling short, but i refuse to give in. I've put in so many words to the blogger named "30 Days in a Van" that i am falling in love. Falling in love with writing. With the seclusion and emptiness of my van. Despite the fact that one of the kids spilled milk in here and it smells like crap. I will not cry over spilt milk.

The novel is depressing at best and a testament to my tenacious nature at worst.

I am on Chapter Nine. The eighth story. It has been incredibly painful to write as it is mostly a reflection on my life. Non-fiction with creative license. I won't be going all James Frey and calling it an autobiography though.

Here is a small excerpt:

I spent the summer of my eleventh year in Portugal with a soon to be divorced, miserable couple who would drink too much wine every night, then make loud passionate love in our small villa. I spent my days reading horror novels about brothers and sisters locked in attics, while sitting on the edge of a large cliff overlooking a small bay full of poor fisherman bringing in their daily catch to sell to the local tourist traps.