As luck would have it the universe has a sadistic sense of humour, of which I tend to be the butt of many a joke. I spent a month preparing for a market by making dolls, tooth pouches and cute little foodie badges that have you wishing the pizza shop was open, like right now. The result of which was a past health issue rearing it's head spinning ugly head just in time for me to reap the rewards of my hard work.
I fancied selling my dolls and making enough money to finance a new line of dolls for the new year. It was going to awesome. Epic even. There was Rocky musical montage going on in my head of the future work process. You were going to see my work go in a whole new direction. Well things did go in a whole new direction. Toward the chiropractor I go. Yes my dear invisible readers, I am subluxated up to my eyeballs which means no dollmaking. Dreams of being the next Joshua David McKinney go on hold. And as I cannot go ten seconds without some creative outlet, my writing beckons me with wide open arms.
So to the laptop I go. Little machine elevated by my latest library find [Amy Poehler's Yes Please], because tilting my head in a downward direction is going to have dire consequences for my already skew-wiffy sense of orientation. Thank you subluxated atlas bone!
As much as I am complaining, I do realise pleasant opportunities do derive from my poor health. My body has declared marshall law and told my brain 'you will slow dow, or so help me, you will have vertigo 24-7'. And that is exactly what I am doing. Or trying to do. My brain is still firing in a million different directions, and I really, really want to design another doll. But here I am writing, listening to the backyard breeze, and feeling it. And I get to wondering, maybe the universe wasn't playing a mean joke on me. Maybe this, the writing, was where I was meant to be all along.