My Seventh Decade...The Years Beyond


Sunday afternoons, especially ones with thunder rumbles and rain bouncing off the windows make me contemplative. It may also have something to do with my seventieth birthday next weekend. I don’t feel melancholy, just thoughtful, so as usual I turn to exploring again where I am on this road of life, how the devil I got to where I am, and what ever am I to do with myself.

If I call myself a writer, does that mean I am a phenomenal wordsmith, that my stories are profound, that I have good grammar and spelling? No! I call myself a writer because it calms me to write, it thrills me to write and I find fulfillment in writing, that helps me live my life. I cannot image myself not writing, even if it is only stories in my head or even if dementia sets in and I dabble in…

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