There was a full moon last night and the man in it took no prisoners.
I sat on my couch watching American Idol with my two Jack Russells snoring beside me. My husband is away overseas on business and if he was here his head would shake but he can go whistle because he isn’t here and I am comforted by their little legs pushing into me as they stretch in happiness.
Yesterday the sun shone in that baby-blanket blue way it has and the trees gave us a preview of autumn.
I am negotiating a book publishing contract. Just typing that sets butterflies aflutter in my chest and arms.
I have wanted to write a book since I was around five years old: after I had decided, on young reflection, that I did not want to become a nun after all. Letting go a future filled with long black skirts and clanking, shiny rosaries with gleaming crucifixes bashing my white knees was a sacrifice I was prepared to make. I could offer that sacrifice up to God which would give me points at the pearly gates.
In my fifties now, the book has taken what seems like many lifetimes to complete. Of course it has: now is perfect. From around five to 50-plus has become me and my writing. Never think age is a barrier. Dream on.