The summer after sophomore year I discovered the Quincy quarry.  

It’s prominently featured in Gone Baby Gone, but if imagination is necessary, picture a thousand slabs of rocks, graffiti’d brightly, stacked a hundred and fifty feet high.  The rocks surround a deep pit filled with water, and legend has it, there are hundreds of corpses at the bottom, so deep that divers can’t retrieve them.

A good friend broke his back that summer jumping.  Not that that stopped us.  

When jumping from a hundred feet here’s what happens:

1.  Falling.

2.  Panic.  Why haven’t I hit the water?

3.  More falling.

4.  Greater panic.  I still haven’t hit the water?!?

5.  More falling.

6.  Desperation.  Please don’t let me hit the water!!!!

7.  Hitting the water.

I remember three independent heart attacks with every jump.  No broken backs, but enough adrenaline released to jumpstart a Toyota.

I recently made a big decision. It has not been dissimilar from jumping off a cliff—something I decided to do, while every fiber of my being begged me not to.  Unlike quarry jumping, it wasn’t a bad decision, or a wrong decision, it was just one in which logic and love were in utter discord.

Also, unlike quarry jumping, I’m waiting to hit the water.

I haven’t been too bloggy of late.  Oddly enough, I’ve been fiendishly kicking out short stories, which is a good thing.

Big transition.  Huge transition.  Mind-googling transition, that has left me utterly speechless about the nonfiction world.  Here is the list of posts I’ve considered writing and haven’t been able to start:

All middle-aged Canadian women look alike

Movers:  Superheroes in action (if they ever deliver my stuff)

Why does quiet scare me now?

…and finally, There should be something called form rage

So, that’s kind of where I’m at.  If I can find a laxative, I’ll share something soon.