Once upon a time I was a real writer. I put things on paper and went back later and looked at it and made changes and was happy when it was good.

I'm not a real writer anymore. I'm something else. I don't know what to call that something else.

Ok. I lied. I didn't EVER think I was a REAL writer.

One day in the near future I will put words on paper, go back and read them, change them, pretty them and make them into a real live manuscript and send it to lots of people who may or may not like it. But one of those people is going to find a reason to put it in bookstores and then I will be neurotic and happy simultaneously. I imagine that then I will be a REAL writer but i'm not entirely sure.



In case you were wondering, parenting is HARD.


It keeps dawning on me that I'm never going to get IT all done. not ever.
What I need to figure out is how to be ok with that and WHAT to do when I can do SOMETHING.

I have an aching desire, a twisted, pathological need to be cool. I can't define what cool is.

I'm a pacifist who likes to shoot BIG guns.

I like nature and all that goes with trying to keep some around but I like me some big FAST engines too. Loud ones draped in shiny chrome.

I can't decide if bitching is healthy or just annoying.

I want a media agreement that there must be equal time for good news.


Its emotionally frustrating to have brainstorms and rarely have them come to fruition.

I've recently become a different person financially but I don't feel like a different person.

My kids make me smile.