F***ing Productivity and the Productive Producers Who Produce It.

Short version: aka, not me, not this summer.

On the other hand, right now my kids are all either living in Scotland (hi, Amelia, Miriam, and Raymond!) or in California camping on the beach with their dad and an assortment of family and friends. That means it's me, my husband, and the dog. Some would say this is time handed to me as if a gift from the heavens, like manna in times of famine or rain in time of drought, so that I can write. Others, the slacker angels, would say it's time to eat tapas at Martine and see Cinderella Man and assorted independent films, to watch semi-competent romantic comedies on DVD, to do the NYTimes Sunday Magazine crossword puzzle while drinking diet Coke, and fall asleep in the middle of it. Time to make and drink iced tea by the quart. Time to take Bruiser to the dog park and admire his doggy character as he runs, nay, prances with the other dogs. Time to pick up merchandise, consider its virtues, consider whether I'm willing to stand in line for the time it'll take to pay for it, and put it back. Time to bake a cherry pie.

In other words, I haven't written much since Friday afternoon.

However, the kids'll be gone till next weekend, so I may manage to marshal my inner resources, gird up my loins, fresh courage take, and do some writing in the meantime.