Andrea Mara

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November Rain

I am glum. I have no excuse. No reason to be glum. I mean, yes, it’s been raining for 457 days solid now, so that might have something to do with it. This morning, for the first time this week, we could walk to school again. Such joy in that walk. And then back came the rain, like someone turning on the tap mid-morning, just when we’d started to get used to this new, semi-dry meteorological miracle.

It’s all a bit November-y and grey. We can’t go full-Christmas yet, and of course we don’t want to wish time away, but I’d be much better at living in the now if the now wasn’t so rain sodden.

I’m editing. And I love this book I’m editing. But I’m worried that I love it because I’ve been writing it for over a year-and-a-half. I’m worried that I love it the way I love the ancient throw on the couch, the one I pull over me every night when I curl up there. I love it like I love the oversized cardigan I wear when I’m sitting at my desk every morning. I love it like I love my battered Mac, chipped corners notwithstanding. I want to be one of those authors who can confidently say, “I love this book and I can’t wait for you to read it!” – instead, I’m thinking, “I love this book and I’m petrified  nobody else will . . .” I mean, I want to love it in some kind of a great book way and less of an old blanket way.

So I’m sitting here, typing this, while the dinner pretty much cooks itself (chicken, frozen chopped mushrooms, creme fraiche, pesto, pasta). The kids are getting extra screen time these days, because it’s all too easy to leave them to it. They’re quietly scoffing the last of their Halloween treats and I’m pretending I don’t know, because I don’t have the energy to pretend to stop them. There is fruit on the table, but nobody has eaten it. I don’t know what’s going into tomorrow’s lunches (other than all the uneaten fruit). I am tired. I am glum. It is raining.

“Do you need a hug?” asks one child, sensing it. I gladly accept a long hug. “Will I do your hair?” she asks, and I gladly accept a plait. We sit quietly as she twists my hair into something called a Dutch braid, and I am better for it. I’m almost ready to live in the now, and finish editing my much-loved-old-blanket book. Just as soon as it stops raining.


PS The self-cooking dinner burnt itself





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