Certain girls

Just finished Jennifer Weiner's most recent book, Certain Girls. It took a very serious turn toward the end, which I did not expect and which kind of threw me into a turmoil of grief and regret. I suppose it's good to be surprised by a book in that way, and I suppose I shouldn't spoil the book for people who might want to read it. It's an interesting mother/daughter story, with each voice alternating chapters -- a technique that rarely works, in my opinion, but which worked for me in this book because I found both voices and story lines equally compelling.

Maybe it's a backhanded compliment, but this book made me wonder why I don't write a book or books about my own, thinly veiled but fictionalized life. I feel like, even after all these years, I still don't know what I'm supposed to be doing, or if I'm "supposed" to be doing anything at all. Does it seem likely that I will sit down and write a novel at the age of 50? Should I not allow age to have anything to do with it? Should I be working on my freelance editing business rather than daydreaming about writing? Should I just write and work and freelance and shut up about it? Should I stop asking myself all these questions? Or should I ask them, but keep them to myself?

I've had another unproductive day looking for my birth certificate. Maybe it wasn't all that unproductive, even though my goal wasn't achieved: I did throw out an entire trash bag of worthless paper and shred even more than that. So some organizing did occur.

Tomorrow I'm going to see if I can drive to work and back without getting stopped by the cops for not having a valid license. It feels insane to be worrying about this.