"I hate writing. I love having written"--Dan Brown

I used to imagine that in my early thirties, I would spend my days and nights telling whoever will listen of my former literary glory. I imagine that I might even tell them some pen names I used.

I would speak not only of my once incredibly popular blog, but the manuscripts that fill my faux leather boxes.



However, at the rate things are going, I expect that I will be telling these tales much before my early thirties. Perhaps as early as the second half of my 29th year.

The reason is fairly simple. I am just too busy. By the time I bake a loaf of bread, roast some coffee beans, grind them, make espresso, tend to my various herb gardens, and watch 13 hours of television, it is nearly time to catch the late night movie.

This kind of schedule is hardly conducive to being a literary great.

I am learning to accept my fate, and you will too if you ever get a taste of my home made challah beer bread.