Yesterday, Mrs. Lion wrote in her post,
“Poor Lion who sits around all day “only” writing books. Poor Lion indeed. What about poor Mrs. Lion?”
Was her tongue in cheek? [Mrs. Lion — It was. Just as his was when he said, “Poor Lion.”] I wonder. It’s true that she works hard at her job and also takes very good care of me. I wish I could contribute more. I’m out of work and all I can think of doing is trying to write fiction that some people might buy. I realize it isn’t much, but there’s nothing else I can do right now. My truth is that I feel very guilty that I don’t contribute more. I am used to being the prime source of income. Now, I’m not.
Since my spinal surgery, I’m not steady on my feet and my arms don’t work as well as before. I can’t do the things around the house I once did. Mrs. Lion has a bad deal. All this makes me feel guilty and sad. So, rather than just giving up, I’m trying to write for a living. That isn’t going well at all. At least the writing makes me feel creative if not useful.
Maybe this is how life plays its last act. One by one, things drop away. When they are all gone, the curtain goes down for the last time. I have a choice. I can observe the losses and lament them or I can find ways to make better use of what’s left. Writing is one way I’m trying to do that. The problem is that while I can elevate the quality of my life, unless a lot of people buy my writing, I’m not doing anything for Mrs. Lion.
She’s amazing. If she believed how wonderful she really is, I’d have no chance of holding on to her. She’s incredibly loving. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have conned her into loving me. Whatever I have left is dedicated to her. I am the luckiest man in the world. [Mrs. Lion — We’re both very lucky people and we know it so that makes us smart too! (And humble. Oh so humble.)]