I have a dear friend, a fellow author, who says that us female writers of a certain age ought to stay mum about how old we are. That we'll benefit from a little confusion on the subject, a little conjecture that we might be younger than we truly are.
To that I say uh-uh. I turned 48 this week and I don't care who knows it. So far it's been great, and I have a feeling that this might be a big year for me. Later this month I'm going on my first backpack trek, six days in the mountains overlooking the Pacific. I'm wrapping up a book that pretty much wrote itself and I'm going to start a new one next week that is going to blow everyone away, including me. Oh, and I was propositioned by a 23-year-old last week. So I say, I'm not sure what I stand to gain by shaving a year or two or ten off my age - 48 is just fine.
Besides, I have these two as role models: Camille Minichino and Rita Lakin get saucier (that's a euphemism, friends, but it's not my place to tell a lady's secrets!) (other than, if I were you, I'd stay out of Camille's way when she's behind the wheel because she has a deadly windshield) every year! Julie and I were lucky enough to do an event with them last week at Book Passage.
A few other highlights from my big week:
I made Steve Hockensmith cry!!
I went to a Pens barbecue (and I'm not telling whose undies are on the line!)
Me and Julie at Book Passage hawkin' them books we wrote
I went to the Ruby Room - oh yes I DID! And you better believe I plan to go back
Birthday Cookies - which my friend Roseann makes for me every year and which are more delicious than Heaven itself