When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.Day 13. Day 13. Day 13. It’s time to do a little dance if you’ve been writing every day. I had a bonafide good day, banged out three pages. Of course, the writing gods could strike me down tomorrow. That’s the beauty of writing. It doesn’t matter if you’re despairing or feeling transcendent, it will kick you in the head. It’s like a guy who takes your number and never calls.
What did you write today?
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Betsy Lerner 
223 shitty words.
I wrote fast this morning. 2-3 pages in 20 minutes. A little disconcerting. Happy-inducing though. (Some guy is gonna have to call me some day, g-damn it. I still have my hair.)
I started writing a letter to my seventeen-year-old self. I kinda miss her sometimes. Hoping she’ll write me back…
526 actual quality words on the topic I meant to be writing about. Who the fuck knew?
“What did you write today?”
Rewrites. Gotta get it right. Why won’t this shit get published and leave me alone? It would be safe from me and I from it. I ain’t no Henry James.
One page, double spaced, plus a couple hours rearranging index cards.
600 word essay, written, edited and sent. Fingers crossed. This was a good one. Felt right as a foot in the door rather than a byline.
I made the word count. This is the shitty first draft, so no crowing over here. I did it, it’s there, and moving on.
Notes to myself concerning structure and layout of the many things I’ve been feverishly writing with pen and paper. It was good — a lot of reviewing and note taking and slashing the shit out of redundancy.
Off the WIP, wrote a stand alone thing and subbed it. Who even am I? Back to the WIP today.
Still with you. The days are full of must-dos, but the nights… ah, the nights. This guy called back for 53 years.