Writing is a solitary pursuit--the imagination guiding the hand moving the pen. I'm pretty old-school, valuing the work of good editors and the revisions process before letting my words go public. But life is short, right? And sometimes, just sometimes, we need to spout off.
A writer, mother, teacher, friend, I love books, blizzards and beaches, music from Hildegard von Bingen to the Beatles to Bonnie Raitt to The Brood; I love medieval churches, red wine, creme caramel, and roasted beets, and walking the woods and coastlines of home.
With the onslaught of crocuses cometh the dreaded ritual of T4 torture. Not that I mind in any way paying my fair share of taxes. But it's the numbers, the math that I hate. The feeling of reckoning, adding up all those receipts that detail the quotidian, the sensible not-too-sexy underwear if you like, of the writerly life. The underwire of postage and (less so, now that agents have Kindles) photocopying. The support of editing fees. The saggy elastic of supplies: pens, paper, printer cartridges. The silky slinky satin of web design & photo fees. All measured against an anorexic income.
Thank goodness for teaching's girdle is all I can say: the proper forms, figures entered in boxes that conform to Rev Can logic.
The things that add shape to the body's wandering.