|Los Angeles, Sunset on Christmas Day 2015|
So, I know the day after Christmas is not a good time to kvetch about the fact that I haven't done any real writing in weeks and weeks, but I haven't really written anything in weeks and weeks. There's a lot going on in these parts, in addition to The Holidays, but I generally write like the dickens no matter. This time, no matter isn't working for me, and I just don't have it in me to spin my stuff.
Tonight, I was talking with my sister on the telephone, and she was trying to remember the name of the book that she's reading. My sister is 50, and I'm 52, and we're both voracious readers, but we're both having a hard time recalling the names of the books we're reading. (Our other sister is a spring chicken at 42 and also a voracious reader but she claims memory loss as well). The 50 year old told me that she was reading a really good one that was shortlisted for the Booker prize (we both believe firmly that you can never go wrong with Booker finalists). She asked me whether a Hello Kitty in a suitcase that washes up on a beach rang a bell, and I said no but that I thought the question would make a great comedic line in a video or sit-com about two middle-aged sisters. Meanwhile, my sister headed upstairs in her house to check on the title which I didn't recognize, and when I asked her who the author was, she said Ruth and I said Ozeki and she said Yes! and I said I haven't read it but I hear it's good and she agreed. I simultaneously remembered that Ruth Ozeki was a Hedgebrook writer, that she'd spent time on Whidbey Island just like I had done but hell if I remember that person. Me, a Hedgebrook Writer in Residence. Was that a dream? Did I really go there? I had so much potential! Where has it gone? When will I write again?