When I’m sitting around watching dust particles in the light from the window, I often wonder how other people spend their time?  I’ve always been a bit of a lazy dog, slow to move in the morning.  I clean up a bit, resist writing anything at all, eat a carbohydrate, read a hefty book, resist writing again, play Bookworm online, watch BETTER OFF TED on Hulu, even ride the exercise bike.  One of my New Year’s resolutions is the ambitious, “leave the house once every day even if it’s just to walk around the block.”   This is a winter resolution, because in January, February and March, I want to unplug, disconnect, detach, disengage, disentangle—somebody stop me—I want to let the air out of my balloon.

I resist thinking; therefore am I?

I structure my life by belonging to a professional writer’s group, which forces me to continue working on my present novel.  I work in the temple on Saturdays.   I have symphony tickets.  I lunch with friends.  Occasionally I bag bread on Welfare Square.  I do my visiting teaching.  All in all, my life’s work is small.

Somebody wants Tom and me to do a radio show.  Sure, set it up, we said.  Just tell us when to show up.  I can’t think about this too much, because, well, I don’t really want to be THAT busy.

Issac Asimov wrote seven days a week and wrote so many books, he forgot he wrote some of them.  He said, “I write for the same reason I breathe—because if I didn’t, I would die.”

He died anyway.

I have kept a geranium blooming indoors since summer.  It’s been well worth my time.

What’s worth your time?