I generally prefer to talk about books than talk about me in this journal, but recently there’s been some rather major stuff happening — namely, that tomorrow I’m undergoing [semi-elective, semi-major] surgery. Needless to say, it’s been keeping me busy and making me nervous.
Because at times like these, when I’m being taken out of my comfort zone and forced to consider my own mortality, the thing that bothers me the most is all the stories I haven’t written yet. Messed up priorities, perhaps, but that’s kind of the #1 reason why I don’t want to die yet.
(I hasten to assure you that I don’t actually expect the worst; as far as invasive surgeries go, this one is about as low-risk as they come. But, hello, invasive surgery, and if you’d spent the afternoon signing wads of papers promising that you won’t sue the doctors if you die on the operating table, mortality would be on your mind too.)
You may have noticed by now that I’m not a prolific writer. I wish I were. I wish, so badly, that I were better at getting all the stories that are in my head onto paper. Every time some anxiety-making event like this crops up, I’m all like, OMG I NEED TO FINISH SOMETHING SO I DON’T DIE WITH A BODY OF HALF-COMPLETED WORK, and then shit gets real and I never do. This time, I’d been hoping to finish a space opera (assassins! space pirates!) but it didn’t happen.
So yeah — hassle me about the space pirates after I get out of surgery, and maybe I can make some inroads on that. I will, after all, be on medical leave for three weeks while I’m recovering; if nothing else, I can get caught up on my reading.
(And for those of you who know me IRL and know what this is all about, I really don’t want or need more reassurances that it’ll all go fine. I know that, and I’m actually feeling very upbeat — just took the last shower I’m allowed to take for the next eight days, woo hoo!)