Let's set the record straight. Judging from responses to my epiphany a couple of days ago, some folks seem to think that I am careening toward the precipice overlooking the chasm of lunacy. I assure you, that's not true.
I have not gone over the edge, off the deep end, round the bend, off my rocker, or out to lunch. Nor have I lost my marbles, become unhinged, or flipped my lid. I am just fine, thank your very much, and in possession of my full faculties, flinging cliches like a madwoman.
You'd think I was Maggie Wyczenski, popping into the ER in a too-short skirt, handing out bagels all willy-nilly to my daughter Abby's colleagues, unmindful of the fact that I am off my meds and quite the embarrassment. But that's not me. I don't even have a daughter. Nevermind a too-short skirt.
Or that I'm covering the walls of a tool shed with newspaper clippings foretelling a subversive plot to take over the world, like Russell Crowe as John Nash in A Beautiful Mind. All of Hick's tool sheds remain full of his junk and treasures. While my basement lair is not quite up to code with OSHA, it is far from a schizophrenic's playhouse.
I do not use my down time to sit at the keyboard typing typing typing like Jack Torrance at the Overlook Hotel, churning out reams of paper proclaiming, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." Even though a blizzard may rage outside my isolated home, there are no creepy twin girls nor an elevator full of blood to accompany me on my overacted journey toward madness.
I'm just Val, suiting herself in the pages of her side project, defying convention one preposition-ending sentence at a time. That's the page I'm on, and the state I'm in.