I’ve been distracting myself with birds and flowers.

In 1975, writing for an Addison-Wesley reading program, I learned to love deadlines. Give me a deadline and a bunch of specs and I will delight you, on time. For many years “good work on time” kept me happily employed writing stories, poems and teacher’s guides for phonetic reading programs. I don’t write on assignment any more and with only myself to please—or not—productivity can be a challenge. So now I manufacture my own deadlines, or make a public commitment, like this one.

Without a deadline, I dawdle in ideas. But try as I might—and I never fail to really, really try—I rarely solve a problem in my head. I can no sooner write without my hands on the keyboard than I can will a spill of beads to sort themselves, or, in my sleep, untangle my lawnmower’s extension cord. Without physical involvement, nothing gets written.

Then there are distractions: recently my birthday, which felt like a big one—three-quarters of a century—was followed by a disturbing national event, followed by worldwide protests, during which my online used book business demanded attention, as did a contract from a publisher for a new edition of……

Excuses, excuses. Let’s get to it! A new memoir piece is in the works.

A NOTE ABOUT WORK YOU’VE SENT ME: Beaver Island word wizard Cindy Ricksters has a fresh addition to her Artifacts to Memories. And while I thank others of you for sharing your past writings, I’m limiting this website to current work: Write now!