I've known for a while that I have to be beaten to a pulp before I give up. And I have Good News. In spite of my bull-like ability to dig in my heels and resist surrender, compounded by my oxen-like strength, everything seems to have shifted.
Was it the no-see-um bugs who invaded my studio and brought me to a new level of gratitude for the little things in life like a bug-free bedroom? Or was it the almost-nine divine hours of sleep last night which put a less desperate spin on the fact that Plan B seemed to be stalled-out-in-the-starting-gate if not in active implosion. Whatever. My forty-eight hour temper tantrum has dissipated like a morning mist. I worked in a workman-like way all day and then dragged Mr. Green off to the swimming hole.
We returned home to a surprise: it's possible that, in surrender, I too had my Oprah moment. No, Spielberg didn't call to offer me a part but I wasn't hoping for that. Instead, I heard from someone who I'd figured was speaking for everyone in the industry in writing off The Louise Log (and me) without the courtesy of even a rejection email. He'd injured his back soon after our first exchange, had been loopy on heavy pain killers ever since and thought he'd emailed.
I did see a bird near the house, this morning, with a vividly blue tail. THE BLUEBIRD OF HAPPINESS?? Hmm. Probably more like the no-see-ums of happiness.