Hi! I'm Deb, and welcome to The Night Shift, where just about anything is up for discussion. It's about midnight as I start this post.
The pets have been put to bed and are quietly snoozing away.
The neighborhood is fairly quiet, although, there's a storm brewing, so the quiet may change to booming thunder and pouring rain at any time.
I’m sipping a lemon seltzer. Yes, that's an acquired taste, and one I acquired many moons ago.
Recently, I came across the notion of writing a letter to oneself, as a…I guess you'd want to call it, a ‘write your own prophecy’ exercise. I thought I'd try it. Because why not.
Anyhoo.
Let's do this thing.
Dear Me,
You have arrived as a multi-passionate creator. You have published books. People like what you do. A lot.
You've bought an analog truck, and a small car, for backup. You've upgraded your cameras. You’ve upgraded your computer. You've bought a drone that takes pictures and video, and learned how to use them to great effect.
The former general store in Maine that you thought you'd have to give up on the idea of owning, was re-listed. You were able to buy it, put the work into it to make it inviting and live-able; warm when it should be, and cool when it should be, too.
It's a pretty place now, what with its new color schemes involving, paint, wallpaper, and comfortable decor. Even if you did find that blending the old with the necessary new, was an interesting challenge.
But you're all set now. The whole project came out beautiful.
You're now settling into the living quarters, and the general store proper; your shoulders have finally dropped down from around your ears, and the pets are happy and thriving.
The cats have discovered whole new dimensions to Window and House Patrol; the dog has discovered the joy of long walks around the nearby lake.
You've started planning your gardens for the next seasons. Flowers. Fruits. Vegetables. You've ordered your raised beds and your greenhouse and your garden necessities.
Your specialty kitchen equipment has arrived and is gleaming on the counters, ready for use.
There are books on the bookshelves. There are, scattered about until the next set of bookshelves arrives, notebooks and corkboards outlining stories and characters and your body of work; past, present and future.
You're sitting at a desk in front of a window, maybe working on a new story, a class outline, a podcast, or a script for a podcast or a talk that could help change someone's world for the better. Maybe there's a drink of something nearby, forgotten because you got distracted.
You're making friends with the neighbors and the wildlife. Yours is a place where people and animals feel welcome, and, at peace.
In the shop, there are books, planners, and outdoor gear that you've commissioned because the great outdoors is two clicks off of the porch, tourists are gonna tourist, and that's ok. You make it work.
You’re someone who knows when sometimes an extra loaf of bread, or just a listening ear, or a place to sit for awhile, is necessary, and you can act on it.
You're someone who finds peace in ordinary days in a tiny town.
You're someone who learned that success looks like being useful, being kind, creating things that matter, and having the time to sit and talk with the people that you care about.
You have built a life that feels like home.
And you are so fucking grateful for all of it, as well as for having what it takes, to keep it all.
Love,
Me
