I am half-watching the Oscars on mute. I am taping them, so I am turning the TV on at random just to see if I can catch Amy Adams in the audience. I'll resist the urge to Oscar-blog.
On a sad note, my poor neglected Betta fish has died. Well, that's "spin". He was up high to keep him away from the cat. But up high on the shelf meant I frequently forgot about him. Poor thing. So truly, he died of neglect. I am guilty. Why did I have a cat and a fish? It's a long story.
My cat, thankfully, is alive. (She's not neglected, and is much louder.)
Tomorrow is my birthday. When I turned fifteen, I was grumpy.
"What's the matter with you?" asked Mom.
"I'm fifteen!" I said.
"So? I've been alive for fifteen years and I haven't done anything! And in another fifteen years I'll be THIRTY!"
She laughed at me.
But my fifteen year old self was right. Now I am turning thirty. What do I have to show for the last fifteen years? Not much. Of course, I've grown and changed and bla bla bla. But have I been effective? At anything? That is, what effect have I had? Not much.
I'm not as grumpy about it though.
And I just discovered that George Eliot wrote her first piece of fiction at 38.
In Ottawa I found a three-volume set of the works of George Eliot published in 1887. The set was in great condition and only $20, so I bought it. One of the volumes is "Middlemarch", which I read over the course of a year and loved. The other is "Romola", which I haven't read yet. And the third is a collection of writing including poems, plays, etc. It includes Eliot's last work, Impressions of Theophrastus Such.
I started reading it last night, and this quote resonated with my musings on turning 30 (except of course, that I have no published work):
I have done no services to my country beyond those of every peaceable orderly citizen; and as to intellectual contribution, my only published work was a failure, so that I am spoken of to inquiring beholders as "the author of a book you have probably not seen."
(I was in Ottawa for the dual celebration of my b/f's 30th birthday and his mother's 60th. Their birthday is the same day. There ought to be a name for that. Anyone know enough latin?)
Ok, this is a long post as is. More tomorrow, when I will divulge the secret to my sister's radiance, and the four kinds of cheese currently in my fridge.
I know, you're riveted.
Writing? No progress since I last wrote. I'm not proud.