It’s an odd post title. I know but it about sums up my life over the last year.

I want to thank those who have reached out about A Flare of Fire, the third book in The Warwick Witches Series. I just wrote several pages and I am starting to feel like myself again. I suppose I should back up and explain about what’s been going on with me over the last year. Buckle in, dear readers. I am approaching this blog post as a cathartic diary entry.

A little over a year ago, my daughter, my baby, began to get her college acceptance letters. The long-shot, the university which only had a 12% acceptance rating was the first that arrived (ironically enough on her birthday). I was excited and proud for her but then the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. You see, the university is in England. As in another country. As in over 4000 miles away. Across an ocean. As the others acceptance letters poured in, 3 in England and 3 in the US, we gave her time to decide and in the early spring it was quite clear what that decision was going to be. Full scholarship to the College of Charleston be damned. Of course, it was the long shot in the UK. The university which offered her the double major that she wanted. The university located in Bath which looks like a Jane Austen movie set. The small charming city where they shoot a majority of scenes from Bridgerton.

Totally my fault by the way as my husband loves to point out. I passed along my love of all things British to her. I created my own hell. I realize this. I cursed every Jane Austen movie, mini series, and book that I had shown her. Harry Potter. British calendars featuring the glorious landscapes. Great British Bake Off. Homemade Jaffa cakes. This one is on me.

Graduation was upon us and then the process of the visa and travel plans overwhelmed me. As the days turned even hotter, I crawled into a cocoon inside of my little world with her attempting to hold onto those last few days as the summer began to fly away. When the day arrived, it felt somewhat surreal. Neither of our flights were even delayed. Those three weeks we spent getting her settled in September ticked by at an alarming rate and then it was time to go. I can honestly say, getting on a plane and leaving my daughter in another country was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.

Coming home was a hard slap of reality. I shut her bedroom door the second I climbed up the stairs when we got home and didn’t go in there until several weeks later. I walked. I cried. I binged watched whatever I could to take my mind off of it. I stalked her on life 360 several times during the day and chatted with her daily. Thank you WhatsApp for free video calling. Also, thank you to my husband for getting me that damn puppy. Without my little mini Australian Shepard aka the menace to my society, I’m not sure how I would have gotten out of bed. Things did start to improve as November rolled around and I decided to decorate the house for Christmas. In my mind Christmas meant she was coming home and I was willing away the hours.

Side note: For those who scoff at decorating for Christmas before Thanksgiving, give me a call when your baby goes off to school and you won’t see them until Christmas. I guarantee you will change your high-horse tune.

Christmas came and it was the happiest I had felt in months. I was even feeling okay about her going back after spending time with her and then it happened. My knee had been bothering me for a few weeks and apparently I am at an age where simply walking down the stairs causes injuries. I heard a pop and it was the worst pain of my life. On the plus side, it is a small outer lateral meniscus tear and it will heal but it’s been slow going.

How does this pertain to writing? Well, basically, I have been too lost in my own thoughts and, okay, I am just going to say it, depression, to focus on writing. I have written a few pages here and there but I just couldn’t focus. I started to become scared. What if I could never write again? What if I lost it somehow? My family gently tried to encourage me throughout this whole year. Shout out to my three kids. They are truly amazing beings but sadly, no words seemed to penetrate.

But then the other day I realized something. This is what I do. This is what gives me the greatest thrill and personal pleasure. I haven’t lost the plot. I own the plot. I started the plot. I know these characters because they are a part of me. Yes, I have entered a new phase in life but that doesn’t change who I fundamentally am on the inside. It took a bit for me to come to terms with it all and to accept it but I am finally feeling more like myself.

Empty-nesting is not what it is cracked up to be. It is an adjustment. To go from being an everyday mom…you know, the daily nagging of bringing dishes down from their room, yelling at them to put their clothes away, school runs, homework, the list goes on…to being a mom with three adult children who are doing their own thing is difficult. It should be freeing. How many days have we all moaned about when they finally move out so that our house won’t look like a war zone? The thing no one tells us is how much you will miss those days. How much you will miss the overflowing laundry basket bizarrely enough. My husband and I should be doing all things we always said we would do but funnily enough, we find ourselves reminiscing about those chaotic kid-filled days which seem like such a short time ago. I suppose in some ways, we are beginning to find our new normal. My new normal is to get on with it and get busy writing and I am thrilled to say that I am doing just that. The first few pages were somewhat nerve wracking because I was feeling insecure but soon the words flowed and I am back in my own little writing world.

I am not going to proclaim a release date is soon but I can tell you that it is not as far off as I thought it would be.

~Shannon