Yesterday, after I posted my blog post, I started to worry.

Did it really have anything to do with writing? Because I had promised myself, and promised you, that this blog would be about writing. And was it too personal? Because after all, I had shown you the contents of my closet. Or half my closet. (The other half of that closet is filled with books.)

What did my clothes have to do with writing? Or my shoes? Or the fact that I had bought a pair of shoes for $7.49 at a thrift store?

And then I thought, my life has become about writing. That's the change I'm making this year, that's the commitment I have made to myself. And so everything in my life has also become about writing, and it either enables my writing or – gets in the way of it.

For example, those (adorable pale pink) shoes. If I had actually bought them at Anne Klein, they would have cost closer to $74.90. And that's part of a plane ticket to a con, or how much I would pay to have a hundred copies of a booklet printed up, or my SFWA dues.

As it is, those shoes cost less than what I was paid for the two poems in Mythic Delirium 23. (So thanks for the shoes, Mike Allen!)

I would still pay a great deal to go to Nepal. But that trip would become part of who I am as a writer. And because I'm a writer, I think I would go to Nepal in a particular way, not staying in the tourist centers, wanting to see as much of the country as I could. Looking for authenticity. Thinking all the time about what I could write about, writing stories in my head, because that's what I do. That's the way I live.

And I would probably blog about it. If I could get an internet connection in Nepal?