This is not who I was supposed to be.

If you’d told me, back when I was twenty-something, that in my fifties I’d be a romance novelist who got up at 5 am to write, practiced yoga, didn’t drink whiskey, and was well along the road to veganism, I’d have laughed. And then raised a glass of Jim Beam in a toast over a breakfast of steak and eggs.

I wasn’t amazingly reckless (except… okay, I was) but I didn’t see the point in planning too much of a future that might not happen. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow.

Continue reading “This is not who I was supposed to be.”

This Endless Summer

I don’t remember summer ever being this long, even when I was a kid. Summers in Australia are long but we only ever had a month or so off from school over the Christmas holidays, so ‘summer’ really only lasted six weeks. Here, in the U.S., ‘summer’ as defined by the school break is usually around two and a half months long.

This year we’ve been doing summer since late March, and for the past two weeks, I’ve been craving the crisp air of autumn, the scent of falling leaves and woodsmoke, hoodies, and all things pumpkin. But August still has a week to go—and it’s nearly 90 out there today. I’m wearing shorts and flipflops.

To be fair, I was probably wearing shorts and flipflops on August 24th last year. I do seem to remember complaining about leaves already turning yellow, though. Saying something like, “I’m not ready.”

Continue reading “This Endless Summer”

A Day Ending in Y

I started writing this post with the intention of sharing all the interesting things I’d been doing over the past month. I’ve cooked, read over twenty books, watched lots of TV, several movies, played games, started on my spring gardening routine, extended my walking route through the neighborhood, written some words (about half a novella), finally compiled all the novellas and short stories in a single series into one volume for publishing, queried an agent, written blog posts, updated my website, and started sweeping and mopping weekly instead of leaving it until I can no longer see the floor.

I’ve been tempted to start a chart on how many times I have personally unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher so I can compare my dedication to kitchen maintenance to that of the rest of the family. Ditto laundry duty and bathroom cleanings. I don’t need a chart to know I’m putting in the most hours, there, though. I mean, every time I arrive in the kitchen, both sinks are full. I harbor a monster peeve about the stacking of dishes in both sinks. Why not confine the stacking to one sink so at least the other is useable? Or, you know, why not stack the effing dishwasher?

Let’s add experiencing increasing frustration with family members to the list of things I’ve been doing.

Wait, this isn’t the post I wanted to write. Continue reading “A Day Ending in Y”

Matter Over Mind

My author bio says, “If aliens ever do land on Earth, Kelly will not be prepared…” No truer words, my friends. No truer words. Except, the aliens aren’t here yet and I’m already falling apart.

Honestly, I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about how I’d cope with something as world-altering and life-changing as Covid-19. The only apocalyptic novel I’ve written features aliens, and the one I’m plotting features aliens because while I will acknowledge that we’re more likely to f*ck up the planet than any visitors, it’s always easier to blame someone else.

This post is not about blame, though. Or even about the virus that is currently infecting hundreds of thousands of people, threatening lives and livelihoods. It’s about my reaction to all of this. I am not okay. Continue reading “Matter Over Mind”