I’m procrastinating this morning. I *should* be perfecting chapter one, now that the novel is done. Instead, I am doing anything that will enable me to avoid working on that damn chapter. And by anything, I really do mean ANYTHING, including writing the book review that I have tried to write three times previously. I hated the ARC so much that I’ve been writing my feelings. That’s a bit like eating my feelings but fewer calories, more mean words. 

It’s been weirdly beautiful in Pittsburgh which doesn’t seem fair since the AQI was 223 on Friday and above 150 yesterday. Shouldn’t Mother Nature send us apocalyptic imagery to warn us of danger? Instead, she’s been giving us glorious clear days with warm temperatures to entice us outside to be poison  …. Hold up. Nice play, Mother Nature. Well done, you.

I’m working on a craft article – also a procrastination strategy except for the money aspect, of course. Writing about writing is difficult because the advice will always be the same. If you want to be good at anything, including writing, you need to dream about it, think about it constantly, and hope. No, no. Sorry. I was thinking about something else. If you want to be good at something, you have to do it over and over and over again. That’s it. 

You won’t necessarily become good by practicing a lot but you’ll definitely get better. I, for example, will never be an opera singer but I can get better at singing by singing. My youngest son knows this because I do it all the bloody time and he is … unsympathetic to my goals. Also, I haven’t improved much, to be fair. That won’t stop me, though, because you should not ever let external voices stop you from trying to reach your goals. 

Socks, the puppy who lives a few doors down from us, likes to hold his own leash when he walks every morning at about the same time that we leave the house. Yes, that’s right. A golden retriever puppy – maybe three months old? – goes for a walk on my street every morning and holds his own leash. I don’t know why but that feels like the external realization of my life goals – doing what I want and holding my own leash while I do it.

My therapist retired. She told me that I’m the client she has known the longest, which should be awesome but feels like it is probably depressing. I don’t feel depressed about it but I suspect that if I were to talk about it, other people would give me that look, the one that says “god damn, you’re actually crazy.” Shouldn’t we spend our lives working to be better, healthier versions of ourselves? God knows that I’ve had the kind of life where that sort of work should be a constant. 

Thanks to the toxicity of our healthcare payment system and our social rhetoric, mental health is viewed as something taboo or dangerous. By having a therapist, I’m telling the world that there is something wrong with me. Well, there is something wrong with me and you should all thank me for trying to reduce its impact on you. HA

Many, many college students frequent the coffee shop where I am now. Coffee shops didn’t really exist when I was a student (before the time of the dinosaurs). My college had a very smoky, basement dive where I could get a crappy sandwich except that I was dead broke 100% of the time, so, instead, I brought PB&J to eat while I sat there and did homework. It was my favorite hangout but before I discovered that place, I was close with another student. We went to high school together and had the same major for a bit. I had four different majors in college so it wasn’t an extended closeness but memorable. We used to study in the library together, near a table of engineering students. I didn’t realize until much later in life (yesterday) that engineers in the 1980s rarely saw women in their classes. It explains a lot. 

One day, I was walking to our usual table and the guys stopped me. They wanted to know where my friend was. Now, you know, I’m a fairly mouthy person. It might even be safe to say that my personality is BIG MOUTH. This is an important point because, as a 20 year old, I catered to these cute boys for months, flirting and the whole deal, and what did they say when I showed up on the second floor of the library without my bestie? “Where is SHE?” 

If life were a movie, my rage would have caused them to disintegrate. Instead, because they were 20-something boys, they were just confused by my frustrated response, my ‘80s version of “seriously?”. It’s worth noting that those are the men who post on Reddit now talking about how completely clueless they were in college. Yes, yes, you were. Stupid men. 

As far as I know, my friend from those days had zero interest in those boys. She was brilliant, had a full ride and is massively successful these days. I, on the other hand, had a partial scholarship and no idea what I wanted out of life. Still don’t honestly. I did know, however, that I was very interested in one particular boy at that table. I don’t even remember his name, have no idea where life took him, but I do remember that feeling, most particularly that feeling of not being the one he wanted. 

After I told them all to go to H-E-double hockey sticks (I didn’t swear back then), I moved on. There was a super-cute rugby player. Need I say more? He was also a genuinely nice person and I hope that he too is massively successful at whatever he ended up doing.

What did I learn in college? I learned that rugby > engineering. 

Much love. And sorry for the title. I couldn’t help myself.