17 Ping Pong Balls and Reaching Into the Dark and Dank Pit to Deal With a Writer’s Despair

This was the closest I could come to a dark, dank pit. (Photo via Stencil)

I took the dog for a walk the other day. It’s winter, here, and it’s a much more involved process because of the snow, sleet and cold. I have to put on boots, wear a hat and gloves, and decide whether or not I need multiple layers or just a single coat.

When I walk the dog, that’s my thing for the evening, I don’t want any other things for me to do. Other than to write.

It’s become my habit to write in the evenings, after supper, when the house is relatively calm. Some days I walk the dog earlier in the evening so that not even that hangs over my head. When I’m back, I can put on comfortable clothes, settle into my writing corner, and write.

That’s my ideal evening, now. The previous twenty-four years were dominated by family and parenting activities. (I wasn’t an effective parent, but I put in the time, which counts for something.)

When I returned home after this particular dog walk the other day, I noticed a sound, like a motor running somewhere in the house. Not loud, mind you. If there was a motor running on the dining room table I’d know right away. No, this was quiet enough to have been outside, like it was in the neighbor’s garage.