I should write something heartfelt about Maddy's recent (finally!) high school graduation, considering I've been blogging on & off about it the whole year. But I don't wanna. A moment this big deserves all the procrastinating distance I can muster, thank you very much. That it previews my encroaching fiftieth birthday, all the more reason to skip right over events that so rudely carve impenetrable monuments to the passage of time.
So instead, I'm writing a book. And not about Maddy or Time or the Universal Truths we mid-life women share.
Nope, I'm writing a book about psychics. Cause it's fun and different and 'cause it successfully replaces empty nest realities with best-seller fantasies. And denial works for me.
Okay, I confess, it's also a goal, since I figured a goal might make my 50th more exciting. I've never written a book, and previous stabs have been pretty awful. So what the hell. Trial-by-error I'm figuring it out. It's fun, too, since a book has so much more room than a magazine article. It's like jumping from an expedition sleeping bag to a California King.
But since that borders too close to uncomfortable metaphor (passing my adventure torch to Maddy while I begin my 2nd half between luxurious, spacious Egyptian cotton ...) I shall return tenaciously to my distractions.