Sometimes, a lot happens but doesn't exactly produce a pile of writing. Looking back, a lot has happened since I wrote here last - I joined a writers' group, I submitted poems, I got through some final edits of the final edits of the anthology, I started off a new story which is taking its own sweet time to get to the end, I wrote a guest post on a blog that I admire (wow!), I sat myself sternly down and completed the first draft of a poetry manuscript, and I wrote a bunch of poems for my blog and just like that. All the usual stuff that one can't really write about, they don't lend themselves to a dramatic narrative anywhere.
Then there's the other stuff - how the son did something right when he had the choice of easy on a platter, and both heart and head got swollen up to the point of bursting with pride and happiness and concern too. An old friend said she was coming to a neighbouring country and asked if we could meet up there? and how the stars and the universe and the immigration bureaucrats aligned up their wills to make that happen. A close relative suddenly made a gift that took the breath away with its generosity and love, and another said bitter things that made for discomfiture and bafflement. No amount of dramatic narratives would do these justice, if I wanted to write them down, which I don't. I keep these hushed inside myself for as long as possible, away from the sunlight, away from the babble and squeak of everyday meaningless noise.