Of absence and excuses

How can it possibly be months since I last wrote a single word?
How can it be possible that I haven't written a word, and yet I continue to draw breath?

The Lighthouse has been sadly neglected.
Dear Reader, there are dust bunnies galloping under the furniture, and webby bits dangling from ceiling corners. Any view the windows may once have framed is now hazy from month's worth of dirt thrown at them by storms. I have been absent and neglectful.

There were good intentions aplenty to pick up The Great Unfinished Novel and plunge headlong into writerly depths with it once more. There were health distractions, and work distractions, all of which served to make me admire all those authors who mange to produce wonderful books and all the while life keeps them on their toes. That takes gumption, and I am sadly gump-less.

Is it that the days are darkening and the nights are lengthening that draws me to sit under the glow of the desk lamp at night? Or is it that soft fruits don't contain as much of the creative-impulse producing nutrients that root vegetables do, so that now when meals are soups and stews instead of berries and salads, the desire to write and crochet and colour has returned?

Whatever the cause, I am drawn back to the Lighthouse, and look forward to playing with words once more.