Virginia Woolf was right about a lot of things. Mainly about how life can interfere with the creative process. I have a room of my own -- more or less -- but there is no place to write in there, and I am sadly lacking in outside sources of income.

Life is. I am supposed to be writing -- it is allegedly good for me -- so I am going to try to do better in that regard. I am still here, although many days lately it feels like I can't say much more than that.

There are some good things. The holidays are over, which is good because the kids are now back in school and everyone is over being sick. (My youngest, poor child, spent Christmas Day vomiting uncontrollably. His eldest brother spent a day stuck in a hotel room in San Diego doing likewise.)

My drawing class starts on Friday. I volunteer at a local arts organization, and have racked up enough hours that I get a free class. Maybe I'll post some of them, if I can ever figure out how the scanner works. If I really work hard, I can rack up more hours and take the class I really want to -- watercolor. (I decided I really needed to learn to draw before I learned to paint.)

Right this second, my kitchen counters are clean.

I keep thinking of things I need to write about -- musical odds and ends, football, EchidnaQuest 2006 -- and just can't seem to get my act together.

Oh well. Happy 2007.