Here's a list of things that I have meant to do for some time:

--send a copy of Rodney Robbins to the people who live at the real house in which the story takes place

--send a copy to my mother-in-law (ouch!)

--send copies to my friend who lives in Vermont

--send one to the librarian downtown who was so helpful with Mumsi

--work on other stories including but not limited to a novel for adults, a devotional book, poetry, and several picture book ideas

Here's what I have done so far:

--nothing (as far as writing goes)

That's not entirely true. The nothing part, I mean. I do think about writing a lot. I think of ideas all of the time (two in the last two days). Then I bring them up occasionally to my family--"That could fit into my new book," I say. They, "What new book?" Me, "The new book I'm thinking about." They, "Is this the same one you were thinking about last month?" Me, "Well . . . " They, "Oh."

Sometimes I think about writing when I'm falling asleep. I can restart the same scene the same way several nights in a row as I drift off. So there's this little boy who has a pet lizard. . . . There's comfort in sameness anyway.