Diary of Books

Diary of Books

I’ve never kept a diary. At least not since I was eight, when my father bought two blank journals and suggested that he and I spend time together every evening writing in our diaries. For several weeks we did just that, sitting side by side on the living room couch and recording the events of the day. One day I came home from school and found my diary in the wrong place on the bookshelf. When I inquired about this, my dad said, “I have to admit something to you. I was so curious about what you’ve been writing that I couldn’t help myself, so I went in your room and read it.”

On Mastery

On Mastery

2018 marks two milestones in my life.

This past March, I turned 40, which everyone assures me is the new 30.  (It’s also, unsurprisingly, the old 60, but no one wants to talk about that.)  To celebrate my fortieth birthday, my husband attempted to coerce me into having a celebration worthy of the occasion, a lavish gathering of family and friends and colleagues, crammed into a modestly priced rental hall to eat finger foods we didn’t cook set to music we only vaguely remembered selecting.  I refused.  Does anybody really need to see me drunk and dancing awkwardly to another Macklemore song about inclusion?  I don’t think so.

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