Things I did today instead of writing the piece that’s due

  • Took my computer to the coffee shop, on the belief that I wouldn’t allow myself to procrastinate in public
  • Bought giant coffee, to give energy for writing
  • Checked Facebook
  • Read knitting blog, even though I haven’t knit anything in years
  • Talked to friend I ran into at the coffee shop
  • Checked Facebook
  • Daydreamed about the meal I ate last night at Stanbury
  • Emailed co-worker about my meal last night at Stanbury
  • Checked Facebook
  • Read blog about funny cakes
  • Bought giant Rice Krispie treat, on the theory that I would feel so guilty about eating it that I would have to write something
  • Felt sick from eating Rice Krispie treat
  • Felt self hatred for eating Rice Krispie treat and failing to write a single word
  • Checked Facebook
  • Skipped toning class I was planning to take at the Y, because I still haven’t written one word
  • Decided to write this list instead of the thing that’s due at work.


On Monday, I fell in love


I was driving to work on Monday morning, listening to a podcast to fill the time. It was a conversation with Mary Oliver, a poet I had heard of once or twice. During that 30-minute drive, I learned that Oliver, now 79, has spent most of her life on Cape Cod, strolling the woods and fields and beaches with a notebook in hand, writing the most beautiful observations about nature — and human existence — that I have ever read.


Everything we do is meaningless, yet we must do it anyway*

I read this article the other day about what it takes to be a writer. The author’s theory is that the twin luxuries of money and time are the magic ingredients that divide those of us who dream of writing books from those of us who actually write books.

She’s probably right. If all of us aspiring writers had the money to quit our day jobs (and retreat to a private beach house whenever we are feeling stuck), we would probably finally put aside the excuses and write something.


The passing of the high chair

Then ...

Then …

I put the high chair in the basement seven years ago, when my daughter got old enough to sit at the table. At first, I kept it because I thought I might have another child. That window eventually closed, but the high chair stayed.

This high chair was not a family heirloom, but it was a solid wooden construction, rare among the plasticized aisles of Babies R Us. It had been a generous and unexpected gift from a family friend, who had memories of her own daughter in a wooden high chair.