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 24 DAY 24 DAY 24 DAY 24 DAY 24 DAY 24 Motherfuckers!!!! I know what you’re thinking, what happens after the thirty days? I’m going to lash myself to the my desk chair and immerse my feet in a tub of oil. I’m going to start wearing make-up and high heels. I am going to get a bone density test and new bras. At the end of these thirty days, I am going to double down because for the last four years I have co-written other people’s books but this feels like something tiny and enormous and I don’t feel like stopping.
You tell me. What’s going to happen?
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Betsy Lerner 
Q: After thirty days? A: You’re going to keep writing.
Alanis Morisette two days in a row! Bonus! (or was yesterday from The Carpenters?)
After thirty days? I’m going to have to find a website that can send me a snippet of lyrics to my inbox every day so I can get my fix.
Then, I’m going to replace my desk chair with a day bed so I can take a nap break while I’m writing for tortuously long sessions.
All this stuff that has been running around in my brain for so long will be written on the page so I can look at it all together and finally make some sense of it!
😉
Well actually, I was going to come up with some kind of smart-ass answer because I know how much you like a smart-ass, but then I decided to tell the truth.
This one deserves better.
I can’t afford a high-highfalutin copy editor so I’ll have to depend on mercy during this time of giving. I’m thinking this will be my last quest for an agent. Know any? I’d hit you up but this is not your genre.
Well, I’m off to do my best. For non-fiction my best was always enough. This fiction-shit, that’s another story.
“You tell me. What’s going to happen?”
After the thirtieth day? After the thirtieth day comes the thirty-first. Make of it what you will. Ignore it at your peril.
The “dirty thirty” becomes the “after thirty” crowd. The one’s who’ve been through it, and know if they can do that anything is possible.
I for one will do as I always do. Continue the hair pulling, the waxing and waning, the ever often questioning of story direction, necessity of this or that word, and moving commas. It’s all fun.
I don’t know. Do I have a story to tell, and does it matter that I tell it? Probably not. But I’ve ritualized my write-and-burn poetry to such a degree that it’s become necessary. I often imagine that the lines will return to me at the moment of my death, fully intact, as if the inhaled smoke were a vessel for the words, that they’re buried more deeply inside me because of it. I want to be quiet, quiet, for the words to flow and float, exist and evaporate, and I hope there will be time at the end to remember what I saw and who I used to be.
Does it matter that you tell it? Yes. Images like “…as if the inhaled smoke were a vessel for the words” illustrate why I admire your writing and what you have to say.
Thank you, Mike. That means a lot to me.
Flying to Philly from FL today, where I will have HEAVY grandchildren time, plus a possible date with a handsome man. But I anticipate continuing to the end of the thirty days NO MATTER WHAT, even if that means writing at night when grandkids have gone to bed.
After the thirty days, it’s absolutely essential and clear that I must continue. This has worked for me, and I’m going to make every effort to write every day. I don’t need to know why anymore. It’s as if I’m being spoken to, and I ignore the voice at my peril.
It just feels so damn good.
I’m going to take a short break and then I’m going back in! I hope you will be there.
Because, to be honest, taking a break terrifies me.
What’s going to happen? We keep going, word by word, bit by bit, as we can. Thank you for the inspiration this month… but every post offers inspiration… very grateful for you!