Four months ago, in what I sincerely believed was more than a hopeful haze, I set my home screensaver to say "100 Pages of Lake Affected by January 18." It was not then a wish or a prod, but a simple statement of expected accomplishment.
I have finished books before and the germination period on this one has been longer than the Bush administration.
(For a Blue State Girl like me, that's a very long time).
I didn't finish.
In fact I haven't started. This morning's puppy patrol gave me the extra waking minutes to finally remove the blinking electronic billboard screaming my sloth.
Swapping out the message doesn't free me of the guilt. Many of the computer passwords I use are scrambled variations of my agent's name, allowing him to silently nag me with each log-in.
But the fact is, I'm none too upset with myself.
I make deadlines daily at work. I truly enjoy my clients and creating solutions for them from the warchest of experience I've been toting around the country for more than two decades. My boss is who I'd want to be if I grew up.
I love being geographically close to family, actually being part of the flotsam and jetsam of their daily lives as opposed to a holiday visitor and email correspondent.
I'm proud of the independent lives my daughters are building and that Charlie is finally, after three tries, actually enjoying retirement.
My scheduile gets overfilled frequently and I don't get to see everyone I want to or do all the things I'd like. Bedtime comes earlier than ever before, often starting on the couch. But it's a good tired, a sleep-through-the-night tired that ends happily with the opportunity of a new day.
I'm not quite ready to attach myself to the almost infinte list of those who did not write the Great American Novel.
But I'm inexplicably near the top of the short list of folks who actually like their life.


Copyright 2006 Judi Griggs