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As a kid, I corresponded with my eponymous Aunt Nancy, I wrote letters to my older brothers who were away at college, and, after my family moved to Pennsylvania, I corresponded with friends left behind in New Jersey. This was the way to keep in touch. Born to be a #writer?? 🖊️

For most of my life I have crocheted or crafted or otherwise finagled handmade gifts for people, partly because was poor, partly because I thought it meant more. In hindsight, I can see most of those gifts were duds, but I'm still no good at buying gifts. It's a knack I lack.

I voted a couple of weeks ago. A couple of women entered, a young one and I guess the other was her mother, who apparently mentioned that her daughter was voting for the first time. Somebody yelled, "We have a first time voter!" and everyone in the room clapped and cheered. 🥰

In an attempt to mollify my feelings this morning, I am eating a chocolate chip cookie for breakfast.

Back around 1980 I visited Anne McCaffrey at her home in Ireland. Warmly hospitable, she loaned me a sweater and gave me a horseback ride through the north-of-Dublin countryside. Her house was a cheerful mess; Hugo awards sat on a cluttered mantel. And she gave me a Pern T-shirt.

I just finished reading, for the first time, "She" by H. Rider Haggard, and I must say I got heartily tired of Her. Loved Haggard's evocative prose -- "dimly, the way fish see the stars" -- and his musings on the circle of life, but She left me cold. Maybe I'm tired of tyrants?

When the kitty-cat hugs you around the neck with his furry arms, head against your cheek, and purrs directly into your ear, that is wonderful. Alas, when he then goes on to scour your tender ear with his raspy tongue, not so much. But that, I suppose, is the price you pay. 🐈

I once judged a poetry contest with a wise friend who taught me two criteria: (1) if the first stanza makes you gag, it's not going to get any better, and (2) if the whole thing is pleasantly readable, then ask, "So what?" If the poem cannot provide a meaningful answer, move on.

A few years ago, when my old hairbrush died, my husband bought me a new one, a big, heavy black thing. I disliked it but didn't want to spoil his pleasure in his good deed. But, a couple of days ago, I noticed a pawprint on the handle! I am replacing that thing pronto. 🐕🦮🐕‍🦺🐩🐶

Playing games online, I am subjected to oodles of Barbie doll ads. I observe that all the Barbie dolls have long, long hair, and all the little girls who are smirking like mad while playing with the Barbies likewise have long, long hair. Geez Louise, what a message. ✂️✂️✂️✂️✂️

I just read The Winter of our Discontent, Steinbeck's last novel, published just before he won the Nobel Prize. Because the title sounded so bleak, I had never read it, but I should have! Making only minor allowances for a male author's attitude toward women, I was impressed.

My older brother, year 1967, in a place called Vietnam. Always remember.

WHY does the dog 1) ALWAYS get in my way when I'm running for the bathroom, and 2) follow me in there and sit gazing up at me with limpid, liquid, orphan calf Bambi baby Nancy Reagan sadsack lost soul eyes? What does that dog WANT while I'm sitting on the toilet???

I found this old photo of my brothers and me when we were kids, around 1952? You can see things were different back then, and kind of dangerous. My brother damn near killed me by shooting an arrow straight up, not knowing it would come down where I was. Real arrow, razer sharp.

This photo of my mother and her siblings was taken around 1920, I estimate. I recognize her cheeky smile; she's in the middle of the back row. I guess this was on her uncle's farm, which is where she was mostly raised. I bet she adored the farm collie. Things were waay different!

I continue to find this photo a message of hope. No, well-meaning passers-by, the horse is not drowning; it revels in its superpowers! It is, after all, a medicine-hat pinto, and medicine-hat pintos are visionary and puissant.

I agreed to speak on a panel about writing mystery, but it is going to be weird. I am a pantser, not a plotter, I dislike red herrings, and I don't write "murder" mystery, which is why my sleuth #EnolaHolmes is a perditorian, not a detective. I should wear a warning sign.

I've indulged myself by having a chapbook of my poetry printed up, giving it to family and friends, and I've been touched by how many of them actually read the poems and comment on them to me. Also, I have been astonished by how many blissfully misunderstand them. But that's par.

I drive an old Toyota Matrix, and if I blow my nose while driving, I toss the Kleenex in the back. Same for any other sort of trash. I think this is a sort of rebellion on my part. Anyhow, the contents of the back seat have reached window level. Time to empty it? *Gleep* ☹️

Just for chuckles....