Nine at three score

Dear gods, what a year.

I lost my mother.

This means I am entangled in an endless, ludicrous and tragic family war.  I am at the center, the one all parties appeal to and blame.

This means a house fell on me.

This means (I hope) that I will have another room for books, a chance to travel.

This means I am discovering a little more of who my mother was.  I wish we could talked.

I lost Diana Wynne Jones.  I miss her terribly.

I lost Mike Waterson, one of my muses; I nearly lost his sister Norma, who was desperately ill, and has (thank gods) recovered slowly.

I have magnificent beloved friends:  who are vulnerable.

I don't feel old.

And I can bloody well still write.  This last month was a gift, and I rejoice.

Nine