In thrall.

I knew I'd need a rainy morning to start this book. Little did I know I would finish it in that same morning. Half-memoir, half-mystery. Set in Chicago, a place I know, in the world of newspapers, a place I once thought I belonged. Is that why I loved it so? No. I loved it for its pacing, its writing, its careful release of emotion and longing. Oh, just go out and buy it. But I'm warning you: read it on a rainy day.

Many valentines.

The best part about the girls' Valentine's Day Championship Volleyball (yay!) Slumber Party wasn't the heart shaped pepperoni on the pizzas I baked. (Although they were genius.) The best part was watching a group of 13 girls from many different backgrounds and experiences, from various grades (freshman to senior) shed their cynical teenage selves to sing camp songs and do elaborate hand rhythms and chants at my kitchen counter. Think "Miss Merry Mack" only a thousand times more complicated. Think the cup scene performed by Anna Kendrick in Pitch Perfect. My husband and I were entertained, mesmerized, charmed. Just last week I watched many of the same girls strut off in high heels and tight skirts to go to a black tie party. And then, to see them morph back into girlhood again, braces flashing, hair ribbons flying, brought home the dichotomy of this time in their lives. Sometimes I believe our best selves are our campfire selves.

Here's the first paragraph of an abandoned novel. So many orphans on this laptop. And so many reasons for letting them all go. But when one door closes . . . well, you know the rest. Damn, this isn't bad either. Hmmmm. Jane was never certain if she chose the beautiful things, or if they chose her. She stood in front of her work table, about to begin, inhaling the last traces of ownership in the fabric stacks, the still-hopeful scents and colors of other people’s old clothing competing for her attention, wide-wale legs and cashmere arms curling into shapes that seemed to high-kick or wave at her, when a sharp knock on the alleyway door interrupted her.She frowned and looked over her shoulder toward the divided light window, but all she saw, at first, were wet cobblestones and the blinking spaceship tail light of an old blue Chevrolet.

Yes & No, December Edition.

Yes, you can have a whole cookie. No, you cannot have a whole pie. Yes, you can flirt with the Salvation Army Santa. No, you can't stalk Facebook for college boys wearing Santa hats. Yes, you can buy yourself a present. No, it can’t be a car. Yes, you can cook a big family dinner. No, it can’t be catered. Yes, you can spike the eggnog. No, you can’t hire a cute bartender in a Santa hat to serve it. Yes, you can quit going to someone’s annual party. No, you can’t quit your job. Yes, you can make New Year’s Resolutions. No, you don’t have to keep them.

Book 'em.

A funny thing happened when I tried to build a tree out of books. 1) I learned that many of my books are upstairs. 2) I learned that I was lazy. But as I built my miniature tree from the books I keep near my workspace, I felt like I was standing on the shoulders of all the writers I admire, all the writers who have helped me, who have held my hand, who have lent their shoulders to cry on. Thank you for helping me build my career. And my tree.

On numbers.

The SAT score. The scale. The calendar. The checkbook balance. The address. The counted candles. The filed rejections. The miles on the car. The time in the race. The friends, the followers. If you really loved numbers, you'd follow Nate Silver's path, not Dorothy Parker's path. Remember that.

What's lost.

Post-hurricane, with a miraculously un-flooded basement, I think about the things that can't be replaced, like family photos. And the things that can, if supplies can reach you. Many of the book clubs I've visited are in some of the most ravaged areas of the Northeast. I know it seems like a small thing -- but if anyone knows a voracious reader whose book collection was decimated -- I have lots of current titles to share, and many other writers who can donate. Email me at kellysimmonswrites@gmail.com