It has been a relatively quiet year. I’m getting older, my dogs are aging, the world seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.
It isn’t that I don’t have anything to say. I just feel quiet. Being retired is bliss. No more planning things three years ahead. No more trying to appease bosses and co-workers who are sure they’re always right. No more living every week on someone else’s schedule. No more leaving my dogs for hours every day, just long enough to run essential errands to keep us stocked with food. And books. Well, the books are for me, the dogs have differing tastes in literature. Although one of my earlier dogs seemed to love Evanovich’s third book. In hardcover. Though she only ate about a quarter of it. She did seem disappointed that she couldn’t find it the next day.
I need to get back in the habit of writing regularly, though I would much rather read. I have stories to tell, and they need to be told with finesse and skill. After I finish the book I’m reading.
After I play with my dogs.