I recently watched The Bucket List, starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. I found the movie interesting, as it dealt with two terminally ill men who create a bucket list of things to do before they die. Simultaneously humorous and sad, the plot raised a question to my writer mind.
When I was a child, I could never understand why my parents said that time passed quicker as they aged. My mind couldn’t comprehend anything but 60 seconds was a minute-60 minutes were in an hour-24 hours were in a day-365 days were in a year. Time was measured as equal. An absolute.
It's that time of year again. Kids are back in school. Unlike past years though, I did not accompany my youngest to school on her first day, she went on the bus. This made me sad because a tradition had come to an end. Not by her choosing, but by mine. The time had come to let her fly on her own, navigate the new middle school campus with the help of others, instead of relying on her mother.
Okay, I'm depressed. You know, that mind numbing depression you face when you stare at that manuscript after you've ditched yet another pair of too-tight pants that are now lying in a pile on the floor. Finally I realize that I've hit that road bump of mid-life, and in a writer's life, I have a sagging middle. How did this happen?
I is for Iron, R is for Revisions-Nary the two shall meet? I hate to iron. Let me count the ways. Pants, shirts, dresses, skirts, underwear....Underwear? Yes, I've heard people iron their underwear. Don't worry, I'm not one of them. I know, TMI, but how many writers do you know that haven't exposed a piece of themselves for the betterment of a story?
It was a dark and stormy night... Okay, so it wasn't exactly stormy, just a light gusty breeze, but it was dark and late. Finally, after a thirty minute commute from my local chapter meeting, I pulled into my garage, a little road weary and at the same time overjoyed I actually made it back to watch the late news on television.
Commit me. I must be certifiable. We just allowed our eight-year-old son to buy a used drum set from our neighbors. As if there wasn't enough noise in my house to begin with between the big screen television with surround sound, two kids, three cats, and one hamster.
The other day, I drove my two darling kids from another eventful trip to the grocery store. You know the kind of driving experience that ranks up there with a root canal. From the "Mommy, Shane hit me.", to "No way, Emily hit me first." To the most popular, "Shane won't quit looking at me.", followed by "Well, Emily spit at me".