I quit the job after 5 and a half months and we are now temporarily ensconsed with my son until August 30 or so. I hobble around the house wondering what to do with myself for another six weeks at which time we will move to a little house on the Oregon Coast for a year. It sounds like we're busy, doesn't it?
Still, I'm not doing anything right now. I'm not writing, I'm not working; I lay around, nursing my foot so I can walk up and down the streets of Manhattan for a week without a crutch.
I look forward to this trip as I have not been there since I was seventeen and had a huge bite out of the Big Apple for which I was at a perfectly ripe age: theatre, the Met, Times Square, LaPuma Opera, sitting at Russell's Coffee Shop until the 3 a.m. Workers' Mass at (I think) St. Gregory's. Wonderful memories, all.
Still, what now?
I have a full month and a half to do something meaningful. A new novel is what I should be writing, as my husband says, nudging me every morning to "get started." One so completely different from my first one, that it will blow people away he says.
"Not away," I suggest, "blow their minds, maybe."
Let us hope.