Bleak and grey again now, but we had one blessed day of sun on Thursday, which I spent with my grandsons. We did errands downtown, including going to Ben McNally Books to pick up Dogsong by Gary Paulsen, the author of Hatchet, a terrific survival adventure story the boys loved. While there I asked how Midlife Solo was doing; Danielle told me none sold in the last few days but then sent word that, just after we left, two were sold. Two! I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams.
After much spaghetti, we settled down to read, not Dogsong yet, but their Xmas book, The Eyes and the Impossible by Dave Eggers, written in the voice of Johannes, a spectacularly articulate and confident dog. A great book so far. We went in the sunshine to Riverdale Farm, where after communing with goats and sheep they kept joyfully busy for a long time throwing stones into the empty, almost-frozen duck pond. What is it about a body of water that compels small boys to shatter the surface with stones?
Today’s excitement: my tech helper Patrick helped me set up a Substack newsletter. Substack is a platform increasingly populated by the most interesting writers, and now I hope to be one of them. Mine is called Touchpoints: A Writer’s Truth, and is specifically about the writing life and my own struggle within it. Have a look, or, as my mother would say, Take a gander. https://touchpointsawriterstruth.substack.com/
It’s true: I post regularly on FB and IG and repost on Twitter; write a blog 3 or 4 times a week; send a MailChimp newsletter to hundreds of former students 3 or 4 times a year. What the #@$ do I need a new writing venue for? Good question. We’ll find out.
Another question is: with all this writing posted for free — using all my expertise and skill but paying nothing — when will I get to writing the next book? Hmmmm?
That, in fact, is one of the things Touchpoints is about. Stay tuned.
PS I took a selfie today because I wanted to post about my favourite winter coat, bought at least 27 years ago with my uncle Edgar’s credit card for Bloomingdale’s. (The dear man, one of the best bridge players in the world, died in 1997.) It’s a long plain black Kenneth Cole, on sale but not expensive to start with, just the right length, light but warm, with a zipper that after all this time has not quit. It’s threadbare now, with bits of whatever it’s made of poking through holes, but I don’t care, IT IS THE BEST COAT. Thank you, coat!
The selfie, however, was horrifying. Who’s that wrinkled, haggard crone in the black coat? No, surely not. But, unfortunately, yes. Instant delete.