Scattershot

1. On a freezing Monday afternoon, I found myself on Boylston Street in Boston and happened upon a charming used bookstore. It looked just the way used bookstores are supposed to look – cozy and stuffed and slightly mysterious. It was full of nooks and crannies and, to my delight, had a little section of paperback mysteries. I picked up two British cozies - Malice Poetic by Betty Rowlands and, well, I can’t remember the name of the other one right now. Price? $6.00.

2. My Christmas recital is looming. I attempted to practice in my hotel room (see Boston, above), but my attempts were quickly thwarted due to room size. It was a lovely hotel built in 1925, but people were apparently much smaller back then and did not require space. Or they never intended their rooms to be used as a dance studio, more likely.

3. Ahhh, the novel. I truly wish I had never told a soul about it until I was ready to produce it in a reader-ready format. I appreciate the encouragement — “How’s that novel coming?” but my answer is always the same. Just trust that until I place the manuscript in your hand it is still “in progress.” I do hope to have it ready before my friends’ eyesight fails them in old age. The good news is that this draft will be wrapped up by next Wednesday. Then it will marinate during the Christmas holidays.

4. There’s nothing quite like the possibility of entering a new relationship to make you examine whether you have completely cleaned out your emotional rubbish bin. It’s always surprising to find you’ve got a little residue left over.

5. For the second year in a row, Hamish is sick right around a major holiday. Do you know how hard it is to get a pill down a cat? It requires two people, thick gloves, and split-second timing in our house. On the other hand, my mother (AKA “Mona The Cat Whisperer”) manages to sit down nonchalantly next to the cat, rub his head, and pop the bill in. The cat swallows it immediately and just looks ever so slightly surprised. I have not mastered this skill yet.