Sometimes it seems to me there are no more than 9 minutes left in every day for writing and me I am not a linear or even a terribly productive person.
Yet I would say that a remarkable number of things do get done, in spite of my disinclination to do them. My friend Donna (who went, with her husband, to witness for us in Quebec) says that I am the most driven person she’s ever known.
This both baffles and flatters me (flaffle? blatter?), until I review, compare and contrast where we started, she and I as teenage runaways, hitchhiking from Las Cruces to Los Angeles without a single useable clue as to what we were doing or where we were going.
And somehow, even though I was patently less practical, more “at risk” than Donna (apologize for the quotes) by temperament and background, yet and still I kept going and going like an energizer bunny with chronically low batteries and somehow ended up with a bazillion years of education and surprising adventures and who woulda thunk it? Maybe the absence of a safety net had something to do with it? Yep, that’s me, up by the bootstraps and all.
Which is to say something like, how exactly did I get here?