I’m always reflective in the last two months of the year. I’ve always been this way for as long as I can remember. The changing of the seasons from fall to winter brings thoughts of the end of a year, and more often, how fast time has passed.
Time, as I age, becomes no more of a number, or a nail waiting in the wings ready to seal my coffin. In my mind, I’m still the wide-eyed, huge-smile child, the one whose picture is on my dresser—she’s in long, pig-tail braids and fashionable cat-eye glasses. She reaches through the frame and hugs me when I need it. She is my past, present, and future. Her voice is mine. Continue reading
The journey, when writing a story, is a ticket with no expiration date—It takes as long as it takes.
The unknown for me is 
After a long time, an agent in London expressed interest in representing me. I can say from all the solitude, self-doubt, re-writes, and happiness to have completed The Last Merry Go Round two years ago—I’m numb. 
Summer brings many things to mind, and one is the sense of space I had as a child. School recess went from June to September. A grin filled my face when the final bell rang. Happiness meant a reprieve from classmates who got on my nerves and unimaginative teachers, whose play-book was rule-driven. Finally, freedom from peer pressure about which suitable school (aka-hip) outfits to wear, or how to maneuver a full-throttle class load (parents insisted on me maintaining honors). 
Okay, summer is coming, and I realize May is one month before June, marking one-half the year gone.
As a result of meeting several women in a book club, I belong to a conversational group, gathering monthly at various coffeehouses around town.
There are times when fear chases my shadow and I wonder why I’m not where I think I should be in my life. With promise of an agent reviewing my latest novel,