Why didn't I write that?

I just read Nora Ephron's I Remember Nothing. I am a great admirer of Nora Ephron's writing, which puts her on a very short list of women writers I admire and want to grow up to be. The problem is it's too late. I am grown up. I am beyond grown up. As Ms. Ephron so courageously says, "I'm old."

She was sixty-nine when she wrote that. Her picture on the back of the book looks sixty-nine like I look twenty-nine. She either has the greatest genes in the world or the greatest photographer. In either case, she looks great!

But that's not the point. The point is she wrote about being old with a clear-eyed honesty I cannot manage. She nailed it. Everything she said, I have thought. Everyone at our stage of life has thought it, even if we don't say it aloud. And if we do, our kids accuse us of being maudlin or morbid. It makes them uncomfortable; it makes us sad.

The realization that she may have only a few good years remaining hit her with real force, as it hits all of us. We know of course that we have only so much allotted time on this earth. We know, but we don't really believe it. I wonder how we manage to delude ourselves for so long.

Snow Day

I woke up this morning to the first snow of the season. It was coming down like crazy, and I had the craziest reaction. I instantly felt anxious. No way was I going to drive in this stuff. No way would I get to work on time or maybe at all. It took a few minutes to realize I didn't have to drive to work. First of all, it is Sunday. Second, I don't commute to my job; I work at home! Finally, it has been more than twenty years since snow was an issue in my life.

That's what I call a subconscious message from my past. I was back in the days when I drove fifty miles a day to and from work and developed a bona fide phobia of snow. When it snowed in Kansas City, I had a panic attack in St. Louis. I went to great lengths to overcome my fears--from buying a front-wheel-drive Honda to leaving home at before dawn and waiting out evening rush-hour traffic until the last car had left downtown. I was pretty successful but didn't win the battle completely until I became a self-employed, at-home writer.

Then, at last, no more fear of snow. No more guilt about not getting to work on time. No more anxiety at the sight of fluffy stuff ... unless, of course, I'm caught off guard when I open the drapes.

Going Around in Circles

I wonder if being directionally disabled is a genetic thing. My mother was, my sister is, my daughter is, and I am. That's enough evidence for me. But, if I doubted that this malady runs in the family, I have only to consider the trip my sister and I made yesterday to Pere Marquette State Park, supposedly a forty-five minute drive from my home. It took us two hours. We got lost so many times it was no longer funny.

This was in spite of having four sets of directions to get us from West St. Louis County to Grafton, Illinois. Two sets were from two different desk clerks at the Pere Marquette Lodge; one was a computer-generated map; and the last was a running monologue of instructions from my new navvy system. They were ALL wrong.

We arrived, eventually, but getting there was not half the fun.

Today, we were taking no chances. For our driving tour of Grafton (population 680) and surrounding environs, we had new verbal instructions, a guidebook and two maps. I would be hard pressed to count the number of u-turns, back-trackings, and dead-end streets we experienced. My sister was driving, and I was supposed to be "navigating." Right.

One thing I have learned: If my instincts tell me to turn right, I should definitely turn left. My instincts are unfailingly incorrect. Unless I am staring into the setting sun, I have no idea that I am going West. Then, calculating what that means in terms of North and South is another matter. When I leave the ladies' room in a restaurant—even when I've been there before—invariably, I go in the wrong direction. Sometimes, I don't figure that out until I hit a wall ... a real one.

I bought a compass once but never managed to set it up because I couldn't find North. I'm on my second GPS and am convinced that even the satellite is confused. I've tested the system by going somewhere familiar (having memorized the route) and found that the directions were backwards. I know which lane to get in to go East, but the navvy will direct me to the opposite lane and take me West.

It's disheartening to say the least and, frankly, getting worse with each passing year. The only explanation I can think of is that genetics and technology have conspired to keep me lost.

Diversity Training

On the surface, diversity is an easy sell. Companies endorse it; government supports it; people give lip service to it. After all, everyone looks good when they say, “Of course, I’m for diversity. Who isn’t?” “I’ve even been through training.” “We have a diversity policy here.”

As a writer, I have been in a position to promote diversity awareness for twenty years. I’ve been hired by major corporations and nonprofits to create videos; training manuals; four-color, glossy brochures; and two books on disabilities. I once tried to launch a business to help small businesses institute diversity practices. It didn’t fly.

The story behind these efforts was not always pretty. The first company that hired me to write and produce a video spent thousands of dollars on the project. I was naive enough to believe management was sincere in its efforts. The HR director told me the CEO only agreed in order to honor a clause in the company’s contract with the union.

The editor of the training manual decimated the copy for reasons I no longer remember. It didn’t take me long to figure out she knew absolutely nothing about the subject. I asked to have my byline removed from the manual.

The saddest outcome was the book that told the stories of thirty-seven young adults with developmental disabilities. Its publication would have coincided with the passage of The Americans With Disabilities Act. But the director of the association that sponsored the project put the completed book in a drawer and left it there for three years. By the time it saw the light of day again, the lawyers had hacked it, as well as the photographs, to shreds.

In the intervening years, the world we live in has fulfilled its promise of becoming ever more diverse. Where once the issue revolved primarily around gender and race, it now encompasses every conceivable characteristic from ethnicity to disability and from language to age. As our society has become increasingly heterogeneous, sadly, appreciation of individual differences has not kept pace.

Sad to say, it may have moved in the other direction.

An Unplanned "Time Out"

Sometimes, we just need a “time out”—a break from our obligations, schedules, and to-do lists. It’s nice when we can plan them (a vacation), as opposed to having them descend upon us (an unexpected illness). I’ve had both recently: first, a week in Florida to visit my daughter, and, second, a short, strange bout with pneumonia. As time outs go, the pneumonia was more effective.

When I travel, I take my life with me, i.e., laptop computer, files, access to e-mail, cell phone, and anything else that seems likely to be needed. When I get where I’m going, I set up shop in a little corner somewhere and work, work, work. In between, I read, read, read. I love what I’m doing but can hardly consider this a break in the action. It’s just a change of environment.

Pneumonia, on the other hand, even though it wasn’t serious or life threatening, stopped me cold. I abandoned my office as if it were in another location (It’s actually next to my bedroom). I didn’t check e-mail. I didn’t call people or go through my inbox. I didn’t sort mail. I didn’t write. I just checked out for about a week. And what is really strange is that I didn’t feel a bit guilty about my absence from the room next door. When I finally felt better, I put on real clothes and went back to work.

What was different? I was strangely refreshed, though still a bit droopy, and I had a new perspective on the urgency factor. Though much awaited my attention, it wasn’t all equally critical; some of it could wait; and some of it didn’t need to be done at all. Life had not stopped while I did. It just kept on flowing, as it always does.

Like a child slipping into a moving jump rope, I just jumped back into my world.

Surviving a Loss

“Grief is a sneaky thing.” This is a line from the best book I have ever read on how to get through the grieving process, no matter how tiny or profound the loss may be. Once upon a time, it was a thin little paperback titled How To Survive the Loss of a Love or 57 Things to Do When There is Nothing to Be Done. In the years since I first bought this book, it has been expanded and reissued until it has become a classic. I have given away so many copies; I don’t even have one of my own.

The book is compassionate, practical, instructive, and humorous. Its authors are Melba Colgrove, a psychologist; Harold Bloom, a physician; and Peter McWilliams, a very funny poet. When I first read it, I didn’t realize it was a somewhat simplified encapsulation of Katherine Kubler Ross’s stages of grief. Sometimes, simple is better—easier to grasp and remember, especially when one is in pain.

In How to Survive the Loss of a Love, there are three principal stages of grief: shock/denial, anger/depression, and acceptance/healing. When I’m trying to get through a loss, I can always identify the exact stage I’m going through. What I’ve learned is that these are not tidy, sequential stages I can tick off one at a time until I arrive at “healing.” Grieving is a messy process. Sometimes, I skip a stage and then have to double back and go through it later. Even more frustrating are the times when I think I’ve completed a stage and then find I’m temporary stuck there or have to return to experience it yet again.

If the grieving process can be simply categorized into three stages, loss itself is not so easily defined. The book is mis-titled in my opinion. It isn’t only a lost love one grieves for; it is any loss, and there are many in life. I attended a discussion on the subject of loss and was once again amazed at how many perspectives there are on this little word. This discussion covered losses ranging from divorce and death to family, friendships, aging, and physical abilities.

We probably could have sat there for hours, adding to our observations and recollections. Some losses were long past and faded with time; others were fresh wounds. It was an emotional conversation colored by compassion, caring, and concern for each other.

I came away with three realizations: There is love and support to help us survive the losses life throws our way. Yet, even with support, grief is a do-it-yourself process. It is a road each of us must travel alone. Finally, it is comforting to know we will make it to the end of the road, changed in some way, but healed nonetheless.

Collecting "Bonding Moments"

Though we lived in different cities, my mother and I managed to spend time together whenever possible. Sometimes she came to St. Louis; more often, I went to Phoenix. We "hung out" for hours doing what we both loved—reading. We would sit at opposite end of the couch, each buried in a book. It was pretty quiet, but there was a sense of being together, engaged in an activity, albeit a silent one. We never said the word, but we were bonding.

Mothers and daughters bond in different ways, depending on their shared interests. My older daughter and I go to movies; meet for breakfast; stroll the Missouri Botanical Garden, cameras in hand; and when I was much younger, jogged. We would laugh and say, "We're having a bonding moment."

I'm visiting my younger daughter this week, and we are engaging in our own rituals. Yesterday, we swam in the morning, spent the afternoon cleaning out her closet, watched a laugh-out-loud movie on TV, and ate pizza. My daughter was talking to a friend on the phone, who asked, "How can you clean out your closet while your mother is visiting?" "Oh, it's something we do when she's here," my daughter replied.

My mother has been gone for eleven years, and I have many wonderful memories of her. But the one I love best is reading on the couch. Right now, I'm collecting bonding moments with my daughters to choose among. Leading contenders are taking pictures at the Garden and, believe it or not, closet cleaning.

Keeping it together … or NOT

I seem to write a lot of blogs about feeling overwhelmed; but the truth is, that’s how I feel much of the time. My friend, Bobette, who seems to get more done than anyone I know, pointed out that I am only one person and can only do so much. “You have too many things going on,” another friend said today. “OK. So, what should I get rid of?” I asked. “Not me,” was her reply, not that I would. That’s just the point. What do I eliminate?

Let’s start with clients. At the moment, I have several book clients, all in various stages of writing or producing their books. I am thrilled to have them and totally committed to their projects. But I never realized how many details there are to guiding authors through the gazillion steps in writing, publishing, and promoting their books. Every step seems to take forever, and if I drop a ball, such as a few e-mail responses, I fall behind and my clients become unhappy campers. I need lists upon lists to keep up with everything I’m supposed to be doing, and even list making takes time.

How about self-care and general health issues? This is massively time consuming, especially as one gets older. I was told by a neurosurgeon that if I want to avoid back surgery (and I do!), I will have to exercise an hour a day for the rest of my life. I am nowhere near that goal and doubt that I ever will be. On top of working out the three or four times a week I do manage, I am in physical therapy and taking a Pilates class, all in the interest of that pesky back. Doctor’s appointments show up in my planner by magic. Inexplicably, annual checkups for every inch of my body seem to occur much more often than once a year.

Marketing my business and my two latest books could become a full-time job if I didn’t already have a full-time job. Marketing is a catchall word for keeping up with Web sites, social networking, blogging, and correspondence from potential clients. Whoever invented social networking was one part genius and one part sadist. How people find time to get on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and all the other possible places to meet and greet “friends” is beyond me. I am guilt ridden when I do because it takes so much time and guilt ridden when I don’t because I am failing in my market obligations.

Personal grooming for women is important, but once again, time consuming. Of course, it would take less time if I didn’t have standing appointments with a hairdresser and nail tech who are located 20 miles from my house. Speaking of house—which includes cleaning, doing laundry and dishes, grocery shopping and running errands—that little word eats of whole days.

I know I left out a bunch of activities, especially reading. I am a BIG reader. I don’t watch TV or go to movies, but I definitely read. I guess that’s expendable, but on a mental health level, it really isn’t. Besides, I am addicted to books. Then, of course, in the last-but-not-least category are family and friends. If anything has gotten short shift in my overcrowded life, it is these VIPs. The sentence, “Let’s get together” strikes fear in my heart. When can I do that? I have no idea.

So much for my latest I’m-too-busy-to-breathe rant. Thanks for putting up with yet another one.

Golden Oldies

If I could design heaven, I'm sure it would look a lot like the fifties—the 1950s, that is. The older I get the more perfect the fifties become in my memory. In fact, they have taken on a glow that can only be achieved by the passing of decades.

I went to high school and college in the fifties. Reason tells me they must have been turbulent. After all, I was a teenager, and a moody one at that. Those were the years of puberty, first dates, first kisses, girls who were best friends one day and worst enemies the next, sorority rush, frightening final exams ... in short, the angst only adolescents can know.

Yet, I can barely conjure up such scenes. It would appear that I never cried myself to sleep, lost the boy of my dreams, had cramps, or experienced anything remotely negative. As I recreate that period of my life, I see myself endlessly jitterbugging, doing the cha cha, or swaying romantically to Nat King Cole's "When I fall In Love." I wear Jonathan Logan dresses, crinoline slips, and wrist corsages. My datebook is packed; my grades are excellent; and my Saturdays are filled with football games and Chief Illiniwik bursting out of the marching band and doing a war dance down the field.

There were meaningful milestones, of course: grammar school, high school and college graduations; falling in love; getting engaged and married and having my first baby; moving away from my family. Those were big moments; but they are often eclipsed by of Johnny Mathis, Kay Star, Frank Sinatra, Harry Belafonte, and Elvis Presley. It was as if every moment had its own sound track.

The fifties weren't splashy or rebellious. They were innocent, predictable, and mostly fun, or so it seems in retrospect. Could I be wrong? Undoubtedly. Do I care? No, not really. If they were flawed, which they must have been, they were "the good old days." Everyone has her own definition of that phrase. This is mine.

Shopping in My Own Bookcase

I write nonfiction, but I read mysteries. I've gone through every author of mysteries, police procedurals, and legal thrillers I can think of. But the unthinkable happened recently: I didn't have a book to read. I was near panic. Too late to go to Borders; library closed; nothing interesting on Kindle. That left only my own, overloaded bookshelves. I must own close to 500 books (well, 487; I just counted them), of which I have read an embarrassingly small number. I decided to go shopping.

One whole shelf is devoted to biographies, autobiographies, and memoir. Since I had just written my own memoir, I decided to see what I did wrong. I noticed I had a large number of books by and about journalists. What a surprise. I picked at random. My choice was a brilliant accident: "And So It Goes" Adventures in Television by Linda Ellerbee.

The quite yellowed dust jacket said: "In a world of blow-dried anchors, Linda Ellerbee is that rare creature—a literate, sophisticated, breezily irreverent journalist who treats the viewer as if he were not an idiot ... she offers not only a truly hilarious and telling memoir but the strongest, most candid book on television and television news ever written."

I wish I'd written that. In fact, I wish I'd written the book. It is so funny, I laughed out loud, but so disturbing, I'll never watch network news again. Actually, I don't watch network news. There is no way to do her writing justice. Linda Ellerbee is a true master of the craft. I want to hang out with her and just listen to her talk.

Here is her description of a senior producer at NBC. "Then there is Cheryl Gould. She is younger, smarter, skinnier, prettier, nicer and probably a better writer than I am. I like her anyway. She is a teacher in the best sense, a woman so sure of her skills and talents she never minds sharing them with those of us less skilled, less talented." (I put a bookmark there, I loved that paragraph so much.)

I could quote the whole book if I had room. Linda Ellerbee's writing is savvy, acerbic, moving—everything I would like my writing to be. She wrote this book in 1985. On the back cover are endorsements from Ted Koppel, Leslie Stahl, Mike Wallace, Sam Donaldson, and Connie Chung. Need I say more?

What to read next? It's a choice between Making Waves: The 50 Greatest Women in Radio and Television and Reporting Live by Leslie Stahl. I have lots of books and lots of time; it's only June.

Getting Into Health

It started with a project on the subject of obesity and one book the client lent me on healthy eating. It was pretty scientific and not something one would curl up with unless falling asleep was the goal. Still it was informative and thought provoking. I read more of Raising Healthy Eaters by Ellyn Satter than I would have predicted and found a description of my own attitudes toward food within its pages. Not good.

I expressed my gratitude, and my client immediately gave me another book—this one on omega 3 fatty acids. I never even heard of omega 3 fatty acids (good fats) or omega 6s (not so good fats), but I sure know a lot about them now. Along with the book came a bottle of omega 3 supplements, which I have been dutifully taking along with my increased ration of fish. Omega 3s are very good for reducing the inflammation of arthritis. How could I go wrong?

Then books started coming in the mail. The first was SPARK by John J. Ratey MD with Eric Hagerman on the positive effects of regular, aerobic exercise on every cell, system, organ, neurotransmitter, and square inch of the brain, from infants to those of us in our more mature years. I was impressed with the writing, the research, and the relevance, just as my neurosurgeon gave me some good news-bad news. The good news was I didn’t need back surgery; the bad news was I would have to exercise an hour a day for the rest of my life. When he told me, I was immersed in SPARK and pretty psyched, so I regarded the doctor’s prescription as more good news. My enthusiasm is flagging a bit by now, but I’m still pretty sold on the concept.

SPARK was followed by The Power Of Play by David Elkind, PhD, just plain Play by Stuart Brown, MD, and The Exuberant Animal by Frank Forencich. I got through the first two but balked at the last one. I have to say, I really enjoyed Play, which convinced me I should do more of that. When, exactly, I don’t know

In the meantime, I kept hearing from so many people that THE book to read right now is Michael Pollen’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma, so I downloaded it to my Kindle. This is one powerful book and not one that is likely to put me to sleep. There is so much to say about it I don’t know where to begin. I can’t imagine that I will ever think about food in quite the way. Now that I know about growing, killing, processing, and transporting animals; the roles of the the diet and fitness businesses and the military industrial complex; insidious marketing practices; and other eye-opening epiphanies, I can almost see the appeal of becoming a vegan (almost).

So, what kind of a new food fad have I hitched my wagon to this time? Is it any different from an Atkins high-protein, high-fat diet or the Sugar Busters diet or the Carbohydrate Addicts Diet or the Pritikin diet, or even Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers or ….You get the idea, there are too many to count or read or try. They all made sense at the time. Several of them started fads of their own. I lost weight; I gained weight; but I never really thought about eating healthy. It wasn’t on my radar. Now, it’s all I can see.

My daughter just called me from the grocery store as she was buying sugar-free coffee creamer. I told her to read the label and, sure enough, it listed high fructose corn syrup (HFCS). That’s worse than sugar, I said. She tried fat free, then fat-free half and half (which also has HFCS in it!); then two or three more things to make her coffee drinkable in the morning. She finally bought something called Silk-something or other and informed me I had ruined her life. Actually, I ruined mine, too. What am I gong to put in my coffee, now?

The Death of Civility?

Yesterday, after months of wrangling, behind-the-scenes deal making, and striking partisanship, the House of Representatives passed the long-awaited health care reform bill. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t pleasant. From the moment the president explained what the bill would and would not do, the spin began. If I hadn’t heard the speech and actually understood it, I might have been confused by what opponents were claiming. I might have even believed some of the rhetoric. But it was so inaccurate and distorted, I dismissed it out of hand.

Almost everything the president said was somehow flipped on its head and came out upside down and backwards. It would have been amusing if so many people hadn’t bought the upside-down version. By the time the bill was passed, few Americans seemed to know what it was designed to reform.

To say this was a divisive piece of legislation would be an understatement. Once again, the country seemed to split in half over a single issue. Congress certainly did, since not a single Republican voted for the bill. There was no room for dialogue or rationality. One was either for it or against it … with dramatic and deafening oratory.

OK. I can live with that. This is a country where we get to have our points of view and defend them or oppose them. But something seems to be happening lately that goes far beyond disagreement. Civil discourse has been replaced by mean spirited harangues.

In the middle of the president’s State of the Union address, a congressman yelled, “You lie!” At recent town hall meetings, representatives were shouted down and insulted. As the members of the House were voting yesterday, on the lawn outside the building, people were demonstrating with signs and epitaphs that were beyond bad taste, sometimes egged on by members of Congress. And, inside the House chamber, there was shouting, name-calling, and a complete absence of decorum.

What have we become? Where are our manners? What happened to restraint? It’s fine to have strong views and to stand up for them. It’s acceptable, even necessary, to debate. But in my view, the behavior of opponents to just about any issue has become deplorable and frightening. We are not a third-world country. We are not children. We do not call names and shout insults. It is not worthy of civilized adults and citizens of a democracy.

There is much to worry about these days, but this breakdown of civility in our society has reached the top of my list.

A Book I Wish I Had Written

I just read an astonishing book! I downloaded it to my Kindle without knowing exactly what to expect. Gail Collins, the author of When Everything Changed, is my new hero. The book is a history of the women’s movement in the U.S. from the first suffragette to Michelle Obama and Sarah Palin. But it’s so much more than that.

All the way through the book are stories of ordinary women, feminist luminaries, and political leaders. The interviews bring them to life as only a seasoned journalist can do. Then, at the end of the book, Collins brings us up to date on where each of the women she interviewed was at the time of publication. Her acknowledgments include the names of the hundreds of women she interviewed for this book. At the end, are marvelous photographs of women whose contributions made such a difference to the women's movement.

This is the kind of book I would love to have written. I couldn’t put it down. As one piece of history followed another I found I was learning things I never knew, meeting women I wish I’d known, and reliving my own life through other people’s stories. There were so many events and was so heroism that were revelations, including the role women played in the Civil Rights Movement.

But what made this an extraordinary reading experience was Gail Collins’s writing. I have a short list of nonfiction writers I admire—Gail Sheehy, Gloria Steinem, Jane Howard, Joan Borysenko—and would be thrilled to write as well as they do. Gail Collins has just made the list.

I'll take the elevator

I was at Borders yesterday, looking for a particular book. Instead of rambling all over the place, like most Borders stores, my Borders is a narrow, two-story affair. The book I wanted, of course, turned out to be on the second floor. “Follow me. I’ll show you where it is.” the salesperson offered and began bounding up the stairs. “Um, I’ll have to take the elevator,” I said. She joined me, graciously insisting I was saving her a trip.

The reason I balked at the sight of the steps is not important. What is important was my embarrassment at having to admit to someone that those stairs were going to be a problem. I’m sure that dozens of people take the elevator every day. That’s why they have one. Since the passage of The Americans With Disabilities Act (ADA), every place of business must be “handicapped accessible.” That law has made it possible for people with disabilities to go places and do things they had never been able to in the past.

I know a lot about disabilities and ADA. I learned from disability agencies, advocates, and activists. I wrote training programs and books on the subject. I was educated and enlightened … in a distant sort of way. The law was passed in 1990—twenty years ago. I was in pretty good shape in 1990, running and swimming and engaged in lots of physical activities. I guess I thought I would always be able to do those things.

I remember when I was learning about disabilities, I became friends with people I would never even have met under other circumstances. These experiences opened up my eyes to a world I hadn’t known existed. I was fortunate to be introduced to the disability community in the way I was, but I knew that for many people the sudden appearance of people with disabilities was disconcerting. They didn’t know how to act. They were uncomfortable. It took me a while to understand why.

While some people are born with disabilities, many are not. Accidents, illnesses, war, and age create them—sometimes suddenly, sometimes gradually. But we all know we are vulnerable. Anyone, no matter how healthy and strong, can become disabled. It’s a scary thought and one most of us try to avoid.

Here I am twenty years older than when I began writing about a subject that touched me intellectually and emotionally, but not empathetically. I didn’t really understand then, but I do now. I haven’t had an accident or a degenerative illness; I have just aged. And with age have come some limitations. One of them is the inability to negotiate stairs without becoming short of breath and feeling my knees pop with every step.

So, I take the elevator. But as I’m writing this, I’m finding myself asking, so what? What’s the big deal? Why was I embarrassed.? Why is that tiny event still on my mind?

I’m not sure I know the answers, but I do know this: If that’s the worst thing that ever happens to me, I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life that I can get where I need to go by simply stepping on an elevator.

Getting Nowhere Fast

Let me begin with an apology to anyone who reads PRISM and wonders why I have abandoned this little blog. I confess I have been busy with The Writing Life (my other blog) on which I have been writing a book. The writing was supposed to take six months, but being an obsessive soul, I poured it out in about 10 weeks. I’m sure it will take every bit of six months to accomplish the next 15 steps on my list and get it from first draft to published book. Never again will I be cavalier with my students or clients, hinting that they should “just do it.” I am certainly reminded of how difficult the doing of each step turns out to be.

Please forgive me. I am truly sorry for deserting you.

PRISM is supposed to reflect on the many colors of life. I can’t decide what color to assign to my subject—blue, perhaps. It is Monday morning, and instead of feeling terribly refreshed after my restful weekend, I can’t even remember the weekend. It was merely a doubly intense extension of the workweek, leading to another workweek. Suffice to say, I am feeling a bit frazzled around the edges, due to failure to take even a short break. There is something wrong with this picture.

Well (I say, defensively), I have a lot to do. I am SO busy. In fact, I am on overwhelm (my favorite phrase). What am I so busy doing? Well, writing for, talking to, and serving my clients, of course (the technical side of the business).

Assembling my 2009 financial records for my accountant and packing away last year's bills and receipts. Trying to work my way through the stack of papers that demand attention NOW. Paying bills, sending invoices, and all the things the “business manager” (that would be me) has to do.

Working on my marketing plan, newsletter, website, and articles. Creating a new website for the book I am writing. Managing a LinkedIn writers’ group. Trying, not too successfully, to stay current with FaceBook and twitter and other relevant online groups. Responding to e-mail queries from potential clients (wearing my marketing hat).

Did I mention keeping my condo livable and clean, doing laundry, running errands, grocery shopping, trying to squeeze in a social activity or two, and volunteering for my one and only worthy cause (the other side of my life)?

There are two ways to look at this list: (1) it is indeed overwhelming and no one could do it, or (2) it is the standard job description of any one-woman business owner. Other people do it; I know they do. And they even manage to go to a movie or out to dinner once in a while. Obviously, I need some serious time management counseling here. The problem is, I’ve had counseling in the past and seem to have forgotten every thing I ever knew. And (this is embarrassing), I’ve ever co-written (with Rene Richards) a book on the subject called Get Organized.

I think I’ll reread it.