How I wish I could write! What kind of blogger doesn’t produce a New Year’s post? I wonder — can I call it writer’s block if I’m not even trying to write? I mean, doesn’t one need to be experiencing some sort of inner warfare in order claim a creative  block? If I just don’t feel like it, does that count?

Don’t know. Don’t care. I know that sounds like depression, but I can’t blame that at the moment either. There’s no deep poetic brooding going on in my subconscious.

I’ve just been busy, doing no-fun things like cleaning out the house of my deceased brother and mother and stacking and re-stacking piles of papers labeled “Mom’s trust” and “Biff’s estate” and “funeral expenses,” while sitting on hold with various mutual fund managers and lawyers.

More than that, though, I’ve been living my life, spending time with friends and laughing until my face hurts, celebrating Christmas with my nephew and his family in a funky old artist’s colony in Pennsylvania, and planning a New Year’s trip to Philly for further frivolity.

Christmas in Mount Gretna, Pennsylvania

Christmas in Mount Gretna, Pennsylvania

December has featured four-hour lunches, spontaneous potlucks with the neighbors, back-to-back holiday parties, and live performances of A Christmas Carol and The Nutcracker.

I’ve spent entire afternoons reading great literary fiction (Carson McCullers, Margaret Laurence), and also some crap (I confess an addiction to John Grisham). I’ve been drinking expensive organic cabernet and watching old episodes of Sherlock Holmes and Perry Mason, along with the obligatory black and white Christmas movies.

So sue me. I’ve recovered from the magnitude-seven grumpiness that shook me as I approached the December 23rd anniversary of my brother’s passing, and I am now celebrating having survived a whole year without him. I deserve to do whatever the heck I feel like doing.

Happy 2015!!

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