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Last Tuesday was one of the best elections I can remember. Okay, the first time Obama won was pretty awesome, but our democracy wasn’t on the brink of being eviscerated by a pumpkin-colored lunatic back then, so it didn’t have the same feeling of relief.

I’m having TMS treatment again. Since you’re probably wondering what the heck TMS is, I’ll tell you: transcranial magnetic stimulation. And, yep, it’s as delightful as it sounds.

I have big hopes for this election. And those hopes come with even bigger fears. Really, it’s more like terror.

I just had an epiphany about the whole manosphere/trad-wife-wanter epidemic. It is this: everything you know about MAGA men—basically, that they peaked in high school, are misinformed, too lazy to learn, entitled, and have the emotional maturity of a petulant child*—can be said about the boys of the manosphere.

It’s hard to imagine that anything good has come from all the vitriol expressed online about the Cornell 7, but at least it has brought the issue of rape—and gang rape specifically—to the fore. Nobody likes to talk about the bad things, but if we don’t, they never get addressed.

I’ve never had a close, personal relationship with a mouse. When I was a kid, I had a pet guinea pig and a hamster, but never a mouse. I’ve come to know more about them and—damn!—I’m impressed.

I never used to worry about algorithms. But now, not only are algorithms the insidious underpinning of my new professional life, they are killing me.

I’ve heard this phrase several times: that the only difference between writers who “make it” and those who don’t isn’t talent; it’s persistence. The first time I heard it I thought, “Well, shit. I’m screwed.”

I will never forget that Sept. 11, 2001, was a Tuesday. That’s because Wednesday is production day here at Crosswinds Weekly. The day we put each new issue to bed.

I was lying in bed the other night when I started wondering why it can be so gosh-darn difficult to fall asleep. At this point in my life, sleep is my only reason for being in bed.

When you work in a creative industry—say, you are a novelist—you have enough to worry about. And, as if that wasn’t enough, I now have to worry about AI.

I used to tell myself that humanity would get its act together and make major changes before global climate destruction wiped us off the face of the beleaguered Earth. But now, not only do I believe that we won’t make any significant changes until it’s entirely too late, but I’m thinking we don’t actually deserve to survive.

Sometimes, when I don’t have enough real-life stress to worry about—like, what if Dubya gets a second term?, or should I start a retirement fund?, or what if my antidepressants stop working?—I spend some time worrying about what happens when we die.

The other day my husband looked down at my feet and said, “You need new slippers.” Even though I knew what he was referring to—the two holes in my slippers over my big toes—I also looked down at my own feet. Then I said, “No, I don’t.”

I am not what you’d call a ‘conference person.’ It’s probably mostly because I’m an introvert and conferences entail talking to lots of strangers. Also, I’m always ready to doubt myself, and a conference—where you’re around lots of people that you’re gonna compare yourself to—is a great opportunity to second-guess your value as a human.

Several weeks back I wrote a blog about how I was taking a break from writing and marketing my books to do some home improvement projects. Well, they’re done. And I’ve learned an important lesson.

Before I retired, I spent the last 18 years of my career working as the communications director of a child advocacy organization. During my tenure there, I wrote and sent out hundreds of press releases. Prior to that job, I worked in journalism, where I received and sifted through thousands of press releases.

I recently watched a very interesting episode of Netflix’s Explained series. This one was on monogamy. Every single expert that they had on the episode was quite certain that monogamy was not the natural state for human beings. Why?

A few weeks back, I blogged about taking a break from all of the indie-author tasks that had frustrated me right into a state of clinical depression. On the blog I mentioned the home improvement projects I was going to take up instead.

I’ve been retired for a year and a half now, and I can say without reservation that I absolutely love it. I mean, I had a good job and everything, but it’s great not having to do it anymore.