Pushing 70 (around)
Like most artists, I am constantly composing, in my case word after word swimming in my head, like small minnows gliding through the shallows. You've seen them: they dart in a pack, shifting directions quickly, going nowhere. I have a perpetual keyboard tapping away, all day. This magnus corpus is now too large to contain, and I have some crazy fear that if I don't start sharing it, the words and scenes I write constantly will go rogue on me. I'll lose my hair. Small little novels will appear as nodules (novules?) around my closed up throat. You'll read about me babbling incessantly on a soapbox at a city park.
You don't want to hear ALL my thoughts. I grew up in an era when children were meant to be seen and not heard, and that kind of suppression produces all kinds of nefarious thoughts and wild fantasies. I just want to write simply and honestly about women's lives, for both women AND men who, like me, set out each day to be our best selves, to puzzle and blunder through a wondrous and difficult life and be happy and satisfied.
Join me! Comment! Argue! Celebrate our specie's special gift of talking and sharing? What else is there?
You don't want to hear ALL my thoughts. I grew up in an era when children were meant to be seen and not heard, and that kind of suppression produces all kinds of nefarious thoughts and wild fantasies. I just want to write simply and honestly about women's lives, for both women AND men who, like me, set out each day to be our best selves, to puzzle and blunder through a wondrous and difficult life and be happy and satisfied.
Join me! Comment! Argue! Celebrate our specie's special gift of talking and sharing? What else is there?
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