Monday again. Queen of Procrastination here.

This has been a very weird summer for weather here. So much moisture. Either humidity to knock you down or just plain rain. The gardens are lush, but much of my tomato world is not ripening, because SUN, mr. golden sun, hasn’t been shining down on me.

If you know that song and it is stuck on a loop in your brain right now? I’m sorry and welcome to my world.

I’ve got a big writing project and I’m spending a lot of time avoiding it. This is not good. Seriously. Yesterday I watched a bunch of tv, used the weedwhacker in between bouts of fixing the damn string on the weedwhacker and bought a damn wheelbarrow, which I have been needing for a damn long time. I have big plans for it. But working in the rain kind of sucks. and dudes, i am supposed to be writing. My brain is a damn wild horse and I’d rather just watch it run than get the damn thing corralled.


I finished a book this week too. The Memento, by Christy Ann Conlin. Really liked it. Makes me think of Grey Gardens a lot, but with kids, and Canada, and a little bit of supernatural thrown in. Well-written and thought-filled.

I’m also reading Slaughterhouse Five again. I’ve got a kid who has my delicious ability to procrastinate and we’re both flying high with not doing the right things in the right order. So, I’m reading it and he’s sleeping, and I’m not working. Win.

Because clearly, I have time. (WTF?)

Lousy pictures taken with a laptop. but cheez. I don’t really care, and I do, all at once. Sigh.

I’m off to find something to do besides write, I guess.

I predict, I mean. I’ve got ten days left to get the majority of this thing done, and I’ve got ten percent of it done. TEN.

in ten days my beloved friend that i haven’t seen in 8 years will arrive and i’m so happy i want to lie down like a whale on a beach and die. (or be saved, i think thats way better than the other.) Someone roll me into the shallows please, with twinkies, and some ringdings please. Maybe pizza and a beer?

Ah shit. Someone motivate me. Please?


Bullets clattering.

  1. My son turns 16 today, is already 16, in fact. What a joy that kid is. I admire the hell out of him and can’t wait to see what his life will hold. ( i mean, i can wait, i can wait, but it will be a joy, it will.)
  2. I’m supposed to be writing a shit ton today. I’m not. Its not quite ten and i’ve been eating a lot. Birthday boy isn’t here, I had my celebration for him last night. I feel unhinged. Do fathers feel this or is it the damn chromosome thing of female?
  3. I mowed the lawn this morning to try and beat the heat and discovered that barefoot is actually not safe and also, that random swerves and curvy paths are not as satisfying when you only mow for a half hour. i have a maze-like path i have to follow in order to get to the garden without walking in tall grass. This morning’s interpretive mowing was shortsighted.
  4. I just had the most fun ordering the summer reading books for the boys. Honestly, I’m going to read them all, including some re-reading. Slaughterhouse 5? BABY! And, i don’t think i’ve ever read Black Boy, by Wright, so I should. And I will. Best summer morning ever. (see #2)
  5. I’m also writing here, (#2 again) and I feel good about it, shimmering in my sweat as I am, I feel good about it. Having books coming in the mail is a pretty damn enticing thing. I have to finish the writing in order to make money to buy more books. Someone help me (besides the two people i have already enlisted to hold me accountable. Oh god.)
  6. I downloaded an app which will block my from social media when I ask it to. So helpful and I’m incredibly aware of my own self-disdain. “For chrissakes kate, just press ‘off’!” well, thank you very much, inner critic bitch.
  7. I don’t have any more bullets. I’m out. Hiding behind the suv in the shootout, no ammo. Either come and rescue or let it be quick. Maybe the work won’t see me if I crawl under the suv?
grassy meadow with flowers in nature
Not my lawn, but a happy one! Photo by Jill Burrow on


love love,



Taxes and Laughter

My taxes have been significantly delayed because, somehow, the form I needed from xyz was sent to georgia, where I have never lived, and not to me, here in fabled Massachusetts. Now that the form has arrived, complete with georgian address still, I can complete the package. (Extension was filed, and etc, for those who worry.)

But why I laugh? Firstly, since a book arrived in the mail today… I am deeply curious, if my job is writer and editor… can I claim a tax deduction for my book purchases? Because, if anything is a tool for a writer, it is a book that someone else has written. It is the very education and training that one finds at the library, if one is that sort.

if one refers to oneself as one, for instance.

that is the sort I am, these days. The girl who keeps buying books, or borrowing books, in the hopes that her brain will click back in and run wild through the secret gardens and find Dickon, who is my dream guy, albeit 34 years ago.

I’m being forced to go through and figure out how much I made this year on my writing (close to nothing, yes, not livable, no.) and then how much I paid for the privilege of trying to get one of those jobs. (more than I made? almost! hows that for fun learning?!)

It is better to laugh than to have to reassess one’s whole life because of taxes. Motherfuck though.

I think this might be therapy laughing. Or psychosis.

I’m not at all sure.

love love,


collage photo of woman
Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on


All quiet

For the first time in my fifteen year shift as mother, all three children were throwing up at the same time. (first, and only. RIGHT?)

Its quarter to ten in the morning, and everyone is lying down somewhere, even the dog.

I haven’t been out to let the chickens out as I’m finding it hard to take more than ten steps at a time. 🙂 I’ve been through tougher spots than this. There was a two week period a few years ago, where the kids all went down consecutively, so there was never any break. This was just one night and at some point, they all stopped throwing up long enough to catch a few hours of sleep.

and now its quiet.

I have a book at my side that is creeping me out, called THE HUNGER, by ALma Katsu. For those of you who regularly read scary things, this is probably not scary. But I’m a novice, and I’m getting spooked by the ominous and the foreshadowing. My brain already knows whats what, but I am waiting, waiting, waiting to find out who and how. Its set in westward expansion times (Donner party) and there is a wagon train and bloody mystery. (even mormons, for godssake.)

So this is what I’m doing, after stumbling to the study to pick up this piece of computer, I am going back to it. Reading. Listening hard for coughing that will lead to more throw-up or throw-up laundry. We shall see. This is the gig.

When my kids were sick last night, they were so grateful. It was insane, but I recognize it. When someone takes care of me when I am ill, I am also so grateful. I love it, in fact, because I get to say to my children out loud…. I love being your mother, all the time, even when you are sick. You are my babies, forever and ever, and I will always take care of you.

Getting to say that, in the middle of the night, to a weak child, while feeling weak yourself? Stunning. Adding to that the sincerity involved? Massive.

So, its all quiet here. And I’m okay so far. Fingers crossed on this. all the fingers, please.

Its not all bad. Not even nearly.


Books, January.

There are more books waiting to be read than I am happy with, January.

When I’ve got writing projects, I have a hard time focusing, even though I can only write a couple hours each day, if that. I struggled at the beginning of this quarantine time to have brainspace for reading, then that went away, but it is back now. I wonder sometimes if I have ADD. I do.

I’m in the middle of 45 different conversations with people, that are all in my head. The real number there is maybe 5. But still, that is plenty.

And there is a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos over there that is calling for me, even though my teenager and I just feasted on some lovely scrambled eggs.

The coffee is weak today and I have no one to blame.

I spent a lot of time in class last week thinking about personal integrity. How to live within one’s own sense of that. Having standards, and the like. I think sometimes I confuse being non-judgemental with giving wide and fast permissions to any kind of treatment of myself.

For instance, I have dated all kinds of people. Tall, skinny, tubby, handsome, not especially handsome. I don’t judge a man by the size of his penis, or his belly. it is character, compatibility, fun.

And in that ‘remaining nonjudgmental’, I can do too much compromising, and I get out of line with my integrity. I want to be treated a certain way, and how far will I let that go before my whole body reacts like a coo-coo bird, shutting the door with a clap?

Integrity. How do I line up with my own standards? What the hell are my own standards? I know I have a lot of fear about a lot of things. (i understand vaguery very well, see?) I cannot let that run the race.

But lets get back to books, see? Because it is another place I am out of alignment. The books are piling and I am not reading. Let me show you what I’m trying to read, and what is waiting for me, and what i am excited to investigate, while I percolate on my ideas about my own integrity.

OK! GO! always and forevermore, be in love with OK! GO!. (together in the chrysalis.)

but okay, here we go.

  1. The Invisible Life of Addie Larue. VE Schwab. This one I have started and its rich with possibility. Addie made a deal with a devil to escape a trap of a marriage, and now she’s just about immortal, but no one can remember her beyond a few minutes. Imagine that.
  2. Boule de Suif, Guy de Maupassant. My father-in-law brought this over to me when I wasn’t terrified of killing him and wanted me to read a particular story. I can’t remember which one now so I’ve got to read the whole thing. Its a series of short stories, and the copy i have is an old red-covered thing with beautiful endpapers and I’m vaguely in love with just holding it, and telling people i’m reading Maupassant.
  3. To Night Owl from Dogfish. Goldberg-Sloan and Wolitzer. A series of letters back and forth from two girls whose dad’s are getting married. YA, I think. Haven’t started it because brain fog, nut house. But! My friend Laura who is a reading maniac, and also writes a mean and fantastic review has recommended it and so I’m awaiting its pickup with baited breath.
  4. Waiting for a Star to Fall. Kerry Clare. My god, i shame myself. I still haven’t read it. I shame myself. But I know how much I like her writing, so I know some of what awaits me. For good goddamn, kate, get on it.
  5. And last but not least, The Adult Years, by Frederic Hudson. Sigh. This is for my coaching class, and my choice to read, and I’ve started it, and I will appreciate it once I get into it, but for now, it just sits there. waiting for me to adult, i think.

Guys, thats just the pile i want to get to first. How can I call myself a reader if I am not, in fact, reading?

It all comes back to integrity. Who the hell do I think I am, man?

low light photography of books
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on