Colleen called me less than 24 hours after this spectacular ass-over-tea-kettle flying-Walenda-meets-driveway event, and she'd already ordered Dragon Naturally Speaking, a voice recognition software that's gotten great reviews. (Colleen promises to update us on how that works out for her.) She's a "life goes on" kind of person who knows that writing is not about typing and falling is all about getting up again. She's got a book under contract, deadlines looming, bloggery to be blogged and stories to be told. Braced by a healthy dose of Darvocet, she showed up at a North Houston chapter of the RWA on Saturday to give a scheduled talk on critique group dynamics. I am struggling to swallow the word...plucky. Gotta love her.
After a weekend of stout drugs and the love of a good fireman, Colleen's off to the orthopedic surgeon today to find out exactly how long she'll be trying to write around her broken wing. I'll update as soon as I hear from her. I'll also be reminding her often over the next few months, as difficult as they might be, that living life, attempting to fly, daring to try -- that is the antithesis of stupid. Adventure is the only sensible use of a human life. Sometimes pain is the price of our ticket to ride, and as the story unfolds, it's worth it. (And yes, this is all easy for me to say since I can still sleep on either side and type with both hands.)
Since the rest of us don't get to be on drugs today, I'll leave you with this Mister Mister moment from the days of our youth, when we sailed the suburbs on neon skateboards, unbroken and indestructible, our bangs feathered like a Flock of Seagulls on the breeze.
"Take these broken wings and learn to fly again,
learn to live so free.
When we hear the voices sing
the book of love will open up and let us in..."