AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Hello my sweet friends. I’m back, and I have so much to tell you!
This is a reprint from years ago, when I was on a similar path. Much is different this time, which will come to light over the coming weeks and months. To begin, I’ve retired from my day-to-day job and have the opportunity to write full-time. So, until I can settle in and make blogging part of my routine, here’s a story of how I feel. It first published back in October, 2017.
HOW long had she been gone? Hard to say.
Exhausted from her recent adventure, the woman approached the dark building with yearning and trepidation. And hope. When the heavy oak door wouldn’t open, she lowered her shoulder and shoved. It groaned and creaked in protest, but relented. Sort of. Its base grated like a plow against the thick layers of dirt and grime on the floor inside until it could advance no further.
She raised her walking stick to whack away the curtain of cobwebs that stretched across the opening. Not knowing what to expect inside, she took a deep breath and exhaled before stepping into the dark void. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she strained an ear for any signs of life.
There! In the distance: a faint beeping, like a tired heartbeat, and a droning hum . . . a machine on its last days.
Letting her cobweb stick lead the way, she stepped cautiously across the room to a huge wooden table piled high with yellowed documents and open books of ancient knowledge. The scene triggered a distant memory. She’d spent many days at this very table, pouring blissfully through poetry and lore. Those had been creative days, and she had made not a few contributions of her own to the literary realm.
She set her hand on the small humming machine and sighed, drinking in the thrill of the call. Pondering the expanse of all that has yet to be imagined.
I must. I simply cannot let this go on.
Now resolute, she took a seat on a gray (cough, cough, wait for the dust to settle—no, green velvet) cushion, and caressed the machine.
“What will I say to them?” Her voice came out in a whisper, and the answer came from within her heart.
“It doesn’t matter, dear one. Say something. Move forward. That will be enough.”
She sighed again and blew gently across the box, sending a swirling cloud of dust upward, and then lifted the lid. A small light flickered. The heartbeat strengthened. Warm memories crept from the shadows and edged closer, crowding in a circle around her.
Encouraged, she began to rummage through the contents, her trembling hands fumbling across once-familiar treasures.
Then it appeared. She squinted to read the date at the top.
“October, 2017.” She gasped. “That’s like eons in blog years!”
A sobering thought stopped her cold.
“What if they’ve forgotten me?” She swiped a sleeve across her tear-brimming eyes. “What if I’ve let them down?”
Her heart smiled. “Well, that’s just a chance you’ll have to take. Somehow, I think they’ll be very understanding.”
She nodded, still doubting, and pressed the “new blank page” button.
“Should I tell them everything, or just start typing as if nothing happened?”
“Just start. The important details will emerge over time. The main goal for now is to reconnect and let them know you’re still here.”
Nodding again, she took a deep breath and began typing. As her fingers tapped the keys, the cobwebs around her fell away, and the darkness ebbed. Sunlight filled the room and joy took its rightful place in her heart.
Hello, my sweet friends . . . I’m back. I have so much to tell you!
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Therefore this is what the Lord says: “If you repent, I will restore you that you may serve me; if you utter worthy, not worthless, words, you will be my spokesman . . .” —Jeremiah 15:19
Tosca Lee’s “Demon: A Memoir” 
MEMOIRS — Hey, I write ‘em, I gotta read ‘em, and frankly, I think memoirs are among the best reading out there—because truth is indeed stranger and much more interesting than fiction.
The Portrait Writer 