My house needs to be cleaned. The laundry needs to be done. The tax documents need to be sorted, totaled, and entered into the spreadsheet for my accountant. The kitchen needs reorganizing. And don’t even get me started on the state of the basement and the garage.
All that said, you know what I’ve done over the past 72 hours?
Yes, friends, it’s true: I shall reach the exalted age of sixty soon. Very soon. Very.
Recently, I watched an episode of “Sex and the City” in which Charlotte announced that she was not going to turn 36 on her birthday because “I’m just not where I thought I’d be at 36, so I’m sticking at 35.” Granted, she was in a tough spot: her marriage had crumbled under the stress of infertility, and her efforts to resume the career she’d paused for babymaking had proven fruitless. Still, it set me to wondering: am I where I thought I’d be at 60?Continue reading →
For some writers, stories spring into being, fully-formed and populated with fascinating, well-rounded characters. The act of writing is little more than taking dictation from the Muse, with perhaps a bit of sprucing up here and there to ensure that the foreshadowing is properly balanced with the revelation and the metaphors sparkle.