I have a writing coach, and she doesn't know it. Her name is Lorianne DiSabato. Although I am just an avid follower of her blog found in hoardedordinaries.wordpress.com, I can sense when her mood takes a dip like when she wrote in her latest piece what happens when she stays away from her journal too long. She feels "rusty when I return, having forgotten the route a feeble, circuitous thought takes from brain to hand then onto the page."
My life's circumstances force me to write in almost desperado fashion for a living, especially now with illness pervading in the room where I dwell in the lowlands. My other means of sustaining the freelance writing is trying to infect older children and teens with a love of and lust for the word. These have taken me away from this space where I like to chronicle, among other subjects, the growth of my grandchild.
Makeup time came early today as I reviewed the contents of my digicam and found these selfies taken by my now five-year-old Kai on her birth week. She may sue me for invasion of her privacy when she comes of age, but by then, I'll be past caring. Hey kid, this grandma still is in love with you. Friend Rita Ledesma likes to quote the author Anne Lindbergh who once said that grandchildren are the love affair of old age.
And mine is intense! Happy birth month, Tweetie Pie!