Husbands are...problematic. I mean mine is. I swing wildly on how I feel about him. After spending the summer with my brother and his wife who are recently separated...I thought how lucky I was that he was the way he was--and are relationship was the way it was...and now back home, all the old reasons as to why we shouldn't be together are so apparent...I can't believe I was actually so satisfied less than a month ago. We will never see eye to eye on our teenager, he has the most ignorant bellowing temper...and he brings the whole house down. That's the real him...not the caring guy who does the dishes when we aren't home. Not liking him at all.

published. ok.

now to tell the dark story: I am here, in a friend's beautiful loft downtown in NYC, having been moved out of our upper west side digs in order for the floors to done...and thinking how we really should live downtown...much more--conducive to my personality. And I wonder, when will I ever stop worrying about my weight? I think that at 4f&%*ing 8. I go up and down-- not too up and not too down and yet...worry I do. But I like to drink wine. What can I say? Italian? Besides it relaxes me and helps my mind open up. Sorry, true. And I apologize why? Because of my weight or society...I don't know which...

I decided that I will make my project about my new documentary. Yes, i am directing and producing a documentary. I plan to spend the next year writing about it. And maybe, I too will get a book deal...:]

About five months ago I opened this blog. I wrote one post or half post and never published it. I went back in yesterday read it, deleted it--not before I saved it as a separate document. How many people have started blogs since seeing Julia and Julie or Julie and Julia? or reading it? And here I am never the conformist attempting again. Do I have a project? Should I?

The real reason why I don't like publishing what I write, is that I write about me. That's what blogs are you say. And I say--how boring. I start to read a blog post and it is blah blah I think I did I want I hate I like...really who cares? These glorified Dear Diary entries deceive the writer into thinking people care about what they write about. I find myself falling asleep reading most of them...and yet...I am compelled.

I have written many peronal essays but have never published any--stop never tried to publish any--well I did try once but only with the NY Times...and it was through a friend and it was a thanksgiving story and it was too late but the answer was no, not needed at this point and I gave up. I am not a great writer. I don't have a stellar vocabulary and I speak quite plainly. I like reading great writers or rather fantastic stories by Jhumpa Lahiri, Salman Rushdie--(got a thing for indian lit)--Murakami, Ian McEwan--(sometimes)--Marquez: Love in the Time of Cholera--Amos Oz...The Hours--anyway it doesn't matter...I don't want to sit here and try to pull out of my aging brain the books that I have loved...(wuthering heights....jane austen...) and don't forget Shakespeare--but that I like to watch.

When you set standards on these how can you write? How can you write a blog...but then again if you think diary...how hard can it be?

So the purpose of this is to keep writing, post my already written stories and see what happens.