My husband and I love this house in our neighborhood. It has a bridge to the front door. It's weird. And wacky. And wonderful. And the old couple who have lived in it since it was built in the 60s are moving out and their son called us and wanted to know if we wanted to buy it. O. My. God.

I don't have a real job. And I impatiently await to see if any of my new book proposals will be loved and purchased. Dreaming of this house got me through the tumor and the hospital stay. Weird that exactly two years later (seriously, like to the day) we get a call about this house. Yep, it's the two year anniversary of my very own heirloom tomato being removed from my heart and lungs. Yipee for me! I'm alive and healthy and well and occasionally wise.

So this being a writer thing, it's wonderful and joyous and painful and rough. I can look at other writers' books and blogs and think, why didn't I do that? I could have done that, I think. And then I proceed to beat myself up. And to an extent, rightfully so. Because I am not the most focused person in the world and I try and juggle so many different ideas and thoughts and roles and personas and geez, even blogs that I end up doing all of them sort of half-assed. Which isn't a new concept, I mean it's common, it's a cliche. I'm a cliche. It's such a cliche that I just called myself a cliche. I am so not good at the meta thing.

I probably should pick one thing to be and be it. Or at the very least one blog to write and write it.