It’s been a year and a month since my last post but since I’m pretty sure nobody reads this blog but me and my writing pals (Vicki, Michele, Karen), it’s probably okay.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about migrating to Substack — I love that place — but if I can’t keep lasflechas up, I ask myself, what makes me think I’ll faithfully maintain a Substack account?

Let’s see how I do out here from this moment to January 1, 2027.

[Gosh, it turns out that I’ve sort of forgotten how WordPress works. That’s what a 13-month hiatus will do… and I don’t like it when ineptitude impedes creative expression.]

I am writing every day these days, working on memoir pages. I will preview some of those entries here; please feel free to comment. If you know me well enough to contact me directly through email or text, please feel free to do that.

Throughout my life as an unproductive writer, I’ve nonetheless drafted pages and pages about my life, my parents, my sister, my brief marriage and long friendship with a strange, sad, and wonderful man, my amazing daughter (she’s a Pisces), my career as a teacher — all of that. But what i’m working on now is focused on my life here in the Sierra foothills: the dream I had, and the reality I am living. And aging. Holy shit, am I ever aging.

Stay with me, will you? I am thinking of this as a process journal too, and will follow the advice every writer has received and given: put your ass in the chair and do the work. Don’t get up when the going gets tough; don’t stay in the chair so long that you trigger a nervous breakdown.

For the first time in my adult life, I have the capacity for the work. I am not gainfully employed; my daughter is an adult; yes, I am busy, but really direct my own time.

And I am getting to the point where I want and need readers.