I've got a poem in Common Ground Review, an old one about my father. I'm grateful for it, as I always am, though poetry always seems like such an odd pursuit, like mastering the art of making perfect roses out of icing.
I haven't any truly profound musings on the end of 2010. It was the year of many important things in my life. My lesson on mortality over the summer was the path that led me to Zen, probably the only belief system that helped me find true spiritual peace and acceptance, and which supports a system of recovery as well.
Nothing more profound than that, I'm afraid. I have no expectations for the coming year, only open hands for all that I will experience, good and less good. Not to say I won't be doing anything--I have two novels to finish, and will be sending The Pleasure Palace around to agents fairly soon. It has no vampires in it, I promise, though it does have zombies (the main character is writing a book about zombie pirates, just to poke a little fun on this author's part of the whole zombie/vampire/undead phenom).
I will be at the Zen Center tomorrow night rocking in the new year, Buddhist style.
Happy New Year!
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