I got a piece (the one on cleaning out my parents' house) back from a journal, Sycamore Review. They didn't take it, but they said they love the way I write and asked for more stuff. Everything was out, almost. I sent them two of the yoga poems, the ones with illustrations. And then I got back a prose piece, "My First Real Lesson," the first non-fiction story I wrote, and sent it to them. It's nice to have people ask for stuff! I could get used to that. But I have to get on the stick and start writing again.
Right now, I just want to finish up my poetry collection and send it out. I don't think I will be able to do anything else till that is out. It's on my mind.
Today I had to deal with my disorganization again. I was trying to get together some financial records so I can take them to a financial analyst who will help me sort this thing out intelligently, to maximize what we have. I couldn't find the place where I'd toted up all the money to go toward the house.
I looked and looked, and then found it in the very file I had in my hand! I'd say it was a senior moment except that I have been like this my whole life. In fact, I might be a bit better, since I've developed coping mechanisms since I was younger.
And when I think of my parents' neurological baggage, I got off easy, didn't I?
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