The inevitable question.

When you write a lot and then you don't, the inevitable question arises. What happened? Well, I don't really know. I don't know if something happened.


I gave the blog a rest while I was writing elsewhere. Thinking other thoughts.
And then, out of the blue, someone asked me what I want to have done by the time I'm 80 (which, by the by, rather far off) and I blurted out, “Well write a book that's for sure!”


So, someone living deep inside me, who I'll assume is an inside-voiced version of me, is speaking up. I'll listen. I'm good at that. Not as good as my friend Lori, who listens so intently and completely I often wonder if she's fallen asleep while I'm talking or has gently set the phone down so she can attend to a project as I go on, but, is really just fully listening.


But, back to me being a good listener.


I am listening, and I'll say based on this, writing has become a goal for the year. This means, I have a plan, or at least I'm formulating a darn fine one, to write every single day of my life for the next year. If some of it goes beyond the morning pages and begins to draw the tale of Ethel and I tooling through Europe with 52 years between our ages, or summons the memories of the first time I laid eyes on my mothers' group and the attendant baby sausages swaddled and lying on the hospital meeting room floor, well, I'll be happy to let that happen. Welcome the reveries which turn ideas into lyrics or stanzas or just fine paragraphs.


I do it anyway. I may as well do it with pluck and purpose. So there.


It isn't a resolution. It's a plan. Kinda formalized.


And again the answer to the aforementioned inevitable question is this: We remodeled the kitchen and for a while, I lost my chair.

Happy 2018.