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Hi there. It's me. Didn't think I'd get here today but here I am and it be good. The weather is crispy shiny goodness and my kids are with their grandparents, who can't get enough of them, and wouldn't you know it, my back is out again. I think the four hour drive to and from Boston this past weekend for our friend's wedding is to blame. It's certainly not my fault. Sitting here blogging doesn't help, but I promise I'm going to do my Rodney Yee core workout when I'm done blabbing my head off, I swear! Look at that. Another spider. Second one this morning. Hamish and I mercifully dumped the first one gently out the window.


Still reading Reading Like a Writer and I'm eager and enthused, a good little girl aching to read all books I should to be a good reader and a good writer so I can dazzle the world sooner than later. Bryan, the mensch, read the "books to read immediately" list at the back of the book and got out a bunch of items for me from the library. James Frey was not on the list, and neither, hmm, was Star Craving Mad. Go figure. I'm fixing to start The Russian Debutante's Handbook, which is on the list, when I finish the Prose. We'll see how it all goes. I'll probably lose steam after two chapters and go back to my tabloid habit. But you know me with the underestimating of myself. Because I'm really starting to skim over the Britney/Katie/Brangelina articles anymore and just note who's wearing what and who's on the worst dressed page. Though I did do a close read of the Alec Baldwin voice mail fiasco.

It's strange, in a narcissistic way, how the childless world goes on without me. All these writers I used to feel akin to, maybe even superior to, and definitely at times inferior to, all going about their writing business, writing, giving readings, going to hear other writers giving readings and then there was me, hosting readings, doing readings, writing, publishing, pondering my "success" on a Mediabistro panel of published authors...And then there's me now, dragging children by my ankles around the kitchen, cursing under my breath, yearning for the spotlight, the time to write, the life of being immersed in writing a novel, and yet knowing that, like my wise mother says, "It'll happen when it happens, and stop worrying already." But I have dreams. Material dreams. A house with a yard in a good public school district near the park that is bought from my forthcoming reasonably lucrative book advance...And at thirty-seven and 11/12ths, I still have to admit that a teensy vain, egocentric part of me, a miniscule part, my pinky finger! Still wants to be a guest on NPR, Oprah, Dave Letterman, I'm not picky.

But then there are these slices of sunshine where I can see myself like some shimmery third person apparition, floating above my head near the ceiling and life is so perfect exactly as it is that it almost brings me to tears. And then I think, Oh! It would be even better if my back didn't hurt. If the floor weren't studded with cat litter crumbs, if the kitchen were redone, if I were living in that house with the yard in the good school district and you see how I unravel perfection. I unravel it to a tangled pile. But I can wind it up again, smooth it out, wind it around my fist until it's glossy and perfect again. I guess that's what I do these days, depending on how awful my back feels, depending on how healthfully I've eaten, how well I've slept. I take that piece of string that is my life and I have a tug of war with it. Every day. And when I write in my private journal and when I blog, I lay that string down and I make letters and words and sentences and paragraphs with it.