Lately I've been reuniting with long lost friends, from college, from my twenties in Boston, and it's been truly wonderful. We're now in our fifties, lots of life experience between us and the road has been rough. Divorce and financial worries have hit many of them.

The writing life

The writing life these days is like scraping together a career in a high school newspaper (even the nonpaying part), all these mediocre mom-writers who go on and on, no one with the time or bother to read anyone elses work, it's all just a bunch of self-congratulatory muck. And now the stay at home dads have joined the legions, mostly writing about travel, or sports, and unless it's been culled and landed in the NY Times, then once again, it's all muck. The problem is, everyone's a writer, no one's a critic. No one is saying "you suck." So all these words fill the blogosphere, the online versions of every which way of print, and suddenly everyone has a self-important byline. A byline plus out-of-check ego is a very dangerous pass toward dilettante.

Missing you

what was I thinking sending Ben off to camp. Once again, can't blame anyone but myself, did I think I wouldn't miss him, that it would be a nice break from the cooking and cleaning, that I'd get to speak with him just once for the entire month. Well, the reality has sunk in, there is no talking to your child during camp. Letters yes, a few bunk mails, maybe twice a week, but it's his voice I miss, holding him, my sweet boy. And truly how is he? He must be homesick, I did catch one picture of him and he looked shy sitting in that canoe with his cabinmates. I want to send him a message that if he's not happy he can come home. That was the bargain, that after two weeks he could decide.