The primary thing, other than writing and publishing, taking up my time and thoughts right now is caring for a person whose privacy I have no right or intent to trample. There's much to write about there, but it's all off limits. I'm old enough to not get our culture's current penchant with oversharing. My friends don't need to see what I'm reading or what shows I'm watching or my GPS location.
When blogging first developed I remember telling a friend that it was like walking out to the mailbox in your pajamas. Just because you can do it doesn't necessarily mean it's a good idea. Most likely the neighbors won't be scandalized by your ratty flannel jammies, but is that really something you want them to see? Do you really want them to know that about you?
In today's world, apparently, the answer is yes. Don't just walk to the mailbox in those faded, baggy jimjams. Take a selfie! Post it on Pinterest and Facebook! Tweet it to your followers!
Well . . . um . . . No. And you damn kids can get off my lawn while you're at it. And suddenly I feel very, very old.
So, I'll just tag this post as “old lady ranting” and go do something more productive with my day. Like finishing the laundry. Oh, the glamour of the writing life . . .