I'm drowning. I am drown-- ning in a sea of paper. So far I can't see the shore, but I guess I'm farther ahead than I was this morning. The choices are killing me, and the walking. Example: I save reviews of books I want to read and then after I've read them I put the reviews into the appropriate book. So I had a backlog of reviews to place (read: walk).

Then there are articles, information, highlights and sidebars to file - that's where it gets hard. I find ideas for blogs, pieces to save for people on my clippings list, insights about aging (that goes on and on and on), recipes that I think might work for me and movie and play reviews. Well, and then there's actual mail that does come in and, while mightily reduced, there is still mail, and more to come very soon, I'm happy to say, as people send their yearly Christmas report. Have to answer them.

I don't want to talk about it any more.

I have print-outs of my seasonal generic letter to mail to people, and I tuck in newsy items, maybe a little jolly (I'll explain), but no pictures. I don't take pictures. The term jolly comes from my father, who invented it, as far as I know. A jolly is not a gift, it's just a little tchotchke to jolly life along. I collect jollies through the year and store them in my gift (jolly) drawers. I don't have to label them; I know who they're for when I look at them again.

As I said, though, I'm not anywhere near finished, and I still have to make a clean hard copy of my book. Every day one has to choose what is uppermost. Right now, several things are vying for upper.

Whoa! (As oppsed to Wow!)

Another first, the last of the year. I would hazard a guess that women are more likely to think about comparisons and numbers : this time last year; this is the fourth year in our new house; where will we be next year? My mother was very good at watching other people work, and making comments. (I'm working on it.) Latterly, after Bill had died, and my father, every year when I took down the Christmas tree, Mom would say brightly, "Well, I wonder who'll be gone this time next year?"

You can't help but remember. Time and events are so inexorable and so irretrievable. A bright, callous question like my mother's does, in fact, make one pause and cherish the present. Whatever is past, whatever the future holds, we have now. Cherish the moment.

Is that a way to start the month? (And end the year?)