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

Lunchtime.

Mid-way through the day's writing, I often take a walk. Not a power walk. Just a stroll. Today I was reminded that even in autumn, winter's colors assert themselves. I swear I smelled evergreen.

Happily, Foolishly, I Dance.

As I once explained to the dude at the Genius Bar . . . part of my social media strategy is to make an ass of myself. So when I told some folks recently that I did a dance whenever I hit 100, 200 or 300 pages, they extracted a promise from me. I hope they are happy now! Watch and weep.

On ephemera.

Something about being around footprints and sandcastles makes me think of the importance of permanence to a writer. We don't write our novels on train trellises (trelli?) or bathroom walls. A novel is not graffiti, just waiting for the inevitable painting over. We expect novels to last, because they take so long to write, build, bind. And yet. Have you ever been at a campground and witnessed someone throwing away the first half of a paperback to lighten their backpack? This is what e-books are: the lightening of our loads. The cleanliness, the refreshment of that is what tempts. But by making novels electronic, have we accidentally pitched them forward, light-speeding them, pinballing ahead? Do e-books force plots to go faster? Do they make sentences slide by before we appreciate them? This is how the journalist feels, the here-today-gone-tomorrow. Are we doing this now, with novels? Or are we betting that the experience will last, even as the form mutates?