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Lost again in Cyber Space, the last article was mysteriously sucked away to the cosmos of lost stuff. So I try again.
The writers' nightmare, but we can always say "That was a Pulitzer winner lost again". We say alot of things as writers' who sustain rejection, edit humilities, and crticism woes.
The Holidays' loom ahead with deadlines and blank pages. Between personal commitments and career we do the tight rope walk. The Holiday Circus that comes down apone us, we wish it was only snow!
The last story is finished, the new article still hangs, the Poetry remaines a question of "Did I write that"?.
From the kitchen another burnt offering, I forget to watch the stove. My ninety two year old Mother who I share the house with, announces that the Doxie just pooped in the hall way. Im in the climax of the article, I hit "P" on the key board by accident.
My dear daughter arrives with the three grandchildren , and the article goes on hold. It's Batman, Baby Dolls, and the oldests' impression of his Turkey performance in his Kindergarten play.
My daughter in true family tradition is an aspireing writer, my Mother is a published writer and they go into the death throws of editing.
I take refuge in the grandchildrens' tent, out of the line of fire. Blanket draped over the kitchen table we feed Brtts' dollies dog crunchies I forgot to pick up and, my two year old grandson, Ronnie does Batman, flying off the table. The Oldest, Charles relives his Turkey play.
After my daughter leaves and the house falls silent, Mother closes the computer room door and her privet space with a definent click, like it was a safe with a time lock that won't open again till she's in Heaven. I leave her alone.
Later Mother and I sit beside the fireplace, sharing a glass of wine, she toasts me I toast her. "Ah, to the writers' life" she says.
We remenisce over writers' work shops, seminars, rejectiones, and publishing victories. We remember William Staffords' kind wisdom, Sheltons' arrogant brilliance, Terry Tempest Williams Affected talent.
The fire dies down and we agree tne writers life is full of woe, full of fun, and a sweet misery we wouldn't trade for anything else.

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