My emotional tail is wagging; curled up in my desk chair, I feel almost as if I were born in this chair. It’s cushioned me through a cyclone of adventures in livingness. Solitude will always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are perplexed by too much solitude or not enough.  The editor I used before submitting to a publisher asked me, “Why do you keep switching between past and present tense?” I told her I don’t control that until I’m in the final editing stage. My control over my writing is identical to how I live—acting on impulse, expanding the mundane into a musical, feasting on all the emotions, and fabricating thorny Walter Mitty encounters. I don’t think of applying proven methods; I make up new ones.

Back to this plateau of solitude. Love what you have, and especially yourself, with all your flaws and regrets.  Honor is more critical; be proud not just for yourself but because someone out there needs you.  

Sometimes, solitude feels like a draft no matter how many sweaters I  wear. There are not many soloists residing in the village, primarily second and third-generation families with dozens of members.  Living unstructured is a discipline that threads some days easily; when it doesn’t, I must rein in my passion for daydreaming.  Today, it is the island of Capri. A friend is there posting photographs, so maybe I need to stop watching other people live their dreams. Yes, that’s it-take a reprieve from FB.