This blog started being about things I make, became about things that I remember and lately is mostly a mix of the latter and things I see in the world.
About five years ago my then-employer euthanized my job. After my job went away, and with it 15 years of my identity, I found that making stuff made me feel better. Like, a lot better. I wrote some, baked some, gardened some. I did some legal consulting for a while. I sewed, in a desultory, impatient fashion. I learned to crochet.
I started to write more. My job has always required a lot of writing. For a couple of years instead of memoranda, project plans and letters rife with carefully calibrated snark, I wrote about current events from a progressive feminist perspective. Sometimes I even got paid. (see the Other Stuff page)
I got another job, a good job. I missed having a job, colleagues, and the sense of professional space and identity that comes with my particular trade. But for a couple of years writing, baking bread, and my garden got less of my scarce brain time.
Right now the world is a scary place and the rage pours out of my fingers, so it doesn’t scorch my innards.
The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something
I’m not a big fan of Vonnegut, but I guess what the dude says is pretty much accurate.