From Saturday Musings to a Year in the Life

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I have always hoped that this day would come.  In my youth, I bought into the Cinderella story of traditional publishing.  An agent would believe in my talent.  She would pitch me to a respectable house.  I’d sit in my garret room at an antique wooden desk and hammer away at the typewriter keys.  Reams

Good evening,
Night softly falls around my tiny house and seeps into the small spaces between the curtain panels.  I raise my eyes to watch the blades of the fan whirring with great sweeps of its deep shadow.  I recall the umpteen browser windows that I had open as I searched for the perfect ceiling

Good day — for it is daytime somewhere, though not where I am.
I’m writing here because MYWOC is “down” for unknown reasons. I have reached out to QWK.NET, my host; and they are working on the problem.
I’ve had an exhausting day here in Isleton.  I’m reminded of my favorite Isaac Beshevits Singer story.

Dear Family, Friends, and Fans:

Greetings to you all from Park Delta Bay.  Pardon this blanket one-size-fits-all missive.   I’m trying to get the word out to everyone about how I am and where I am as expeditiously as possible.  Whether you’re already in-the-know or not, I’ve included everyone in the BCC list that I think

Folks — if you have not yet subscribed to My Year Without Complaining, I hope you will do so.
In the meantime, find today’s sage HERE.
Be well, everyone.  I’ll remind you from time to time about the hiatus and eventual rebirth.  Thank you for your loyalty and love.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The

Dear Friends, Fans, and Family:
I gave myself permission not to write my Saturday Musings yesterday.  I found myself at a distant locale without my own computer.  Someone offered me a cup of coffee.  Thoughts that I had been entertaining of borrowing my host’s PC to write flew out of my mind, wafted to the

Good morning,
Two sentient beings still sleep, though I have already disturbed one of them.  Under the coffee table in the front bedroom, the old dog curls in her tattered bed.  I’d like to buy a new cover for it, but we want her to have familiar smells when she moves to her adopted home. 

Good morning,
I balance the ThinkPad on a tray which itself rests on a half-open drawer.  I sit on a wooden stool, one of two left behind by someone who briefly tarried in my life and then sought a smoother path.  The radio plays as it always plays, intruding now and then into my thoughts. 

Good morning,
Today I remember my favorite curmudgeon, Jabez MacLaughlin, three years after his passing from this life to whatever lies beyond the world we see.  I’m thinking of the first time that I drove one of the nearly-twin vehicles which he and his Joanna had.
We were to have met at his house and

Good morning,
I’m getting good at asking for help, so when my friend Richard said, do you want me to carry the plants into the house, I said, sure.
And soon enough:  I stood like a queen surveying her upper forty, surrounded by vibrant verdancy.  I told Richard about my mother and her 269 house plants, and then