Okay, so what the

heck? I fell off the wagon, big time. And damn: what a disturbing thud there was when I hit the floor; even the ground was embarrassed. Me and my fat ass. So much for my eager vow to post on my blog daily. Excuses, I've got excuses. Nope, won't go there, no excuse. What kind of a writer does she think she is, can't even come up with some puny something to write for a blog that nobody even reads anyway? Well, at least I'm reading a lot. My current TBR pile makes my heart quicken with gladness: my favorite girl, Sylvia Plath. Dostoevsky, Anne Sexton, Maxine Hong Kingston, Tolstoy. Toni Morrison, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Lorraine Hansberry. It's fun when you mix it up. I think I belong to too many reading groups. I'm on my second read of Bharati Mukherjee's Jasmine, couldn't put it down the first time, and it's even better this time around. Getting ready to re-read Richard Wright's Native Son. Shudderingly disturbing work. Yummy.