Publishing used to be an ordeal. But with print on demand it happens faster than some people's commute at rush hour. John uploaded a hundred stories, artfully formatted by a dear friend, and bam. There it was on lulu.com. Marriage Moats Volume 3. 

I will never be one to write a novel. Carrying a plot line longer than a piece of spaghetti is beyond my reach. But vignettes that slip in and out before you have time to get bored are my niche. 

My son tells me that the intricate images I see on a screen are made of pixels. Tiny spots of color, that squish together into shapes of people, houses, trees. Huddled as they are they make sense collectively, whereas one or three or even fifty are too sparse. 

One of the perks of being old is that the sheer volume of life events begin to congeal. The rascally behavior of a two year old is less draining, because I have seen it feed into the inquisitiveness of a five year old. The defiant independence of a teenager is fodder for becoming responsible in their twenties. The jobs I had in my forties bleed into the ones I have now. 

I wonder what my perspective will evolve to in a hundred more years. Maybe even the circumstances of sickness, melting ice caps, and tantrummy governments will provide shadows that make the whole landscape shimmer.