Editing is way harder than writing

No wonder our publications, including headlines on CNN have mistakes.  Editing is HARDER than writing.  It took me my whole life to write my story because in order to tell it, I had to live it.  It took me three years to physically write it.  It is taking me FOREVER to review it and edit it.  I swear this is my 20th time editing.  Five additional pair of eyes have combed for mistakes and I do not feel confident yet.  Anyone want to read my manuscript and look again?  HELP!!!


Now, I will not lie.  I am vain. But surely, you have figured that out, because it takes a certain amount of vanity to blog. 

I used to imagine that what we had tried but had not accomplished in our life, would get accomplished in our death.  I imagined our children – my one and my husband’s three – would come back to our house after “the funerals” and would stay and go through our stuff and talk and connect and find out who we really were by going through our stuff.  I imagined “the girls” fingering my jewelry and dividing it up.  I imagined them choosing which paintings and photographs they would take back with them and keep.  I imagined “the boys” going through my husband’s sports collectibles and equipment and dividing them up.  I imagined them sharing the photographs and swapping stories.

We are Jewish and we sit shiva for seven days.  Surely that would allow enough time for all this bonding that never took place during our living years, to take place. 


Then I remembered that my step children are not Jewish.  They live far away.  They have their own children and their own lives and they work. 

So the question is:  Do we do the children a favor and start getting rid of the excesses and NOT replace the stuff that we sell or give away or throw away?  Or do we burden them by making them go through decades of our lives? 

Games Couples Play

We are both lazy and so we decide to dine at the hotel.  They have a lovely outside area and we sit down.  There is a constant parade of people going by.  I follow my husband’s glance.  She may be twenty or thirty.  I can no longer tell. 


My husband likes to make up stories about the people he sees.  He then believes the story he tells and goes on to ask me questions about the people.  It goes like this:  “ See that couple over there?’’ and he points, totally humiliating me. “He’s a professor at Columbia.  And she is a journalist.  How do you think they can afford the city?”  I answer:  “They live in the one bedroom rent stabilized apartment he moved into when he was in grad school and they chose not to have children.”  “See that guy sitting over there?”  (and my husband points to someone at a nearby table.  Someone who might be staying at this hotel.  Or not.  Because we have no way of knowing short of going up to him and asking.  Because we are making up a life he may or most probably does not have).   “He is here on business.  What do you think he does?”  I look and I have no idea.  “He is a visiting professor.  He is here to talk to other intellectuals.  He is collecting ideas for his book.  It is publish or perish.”  I answer.  “What is he writing about?”  “Economics,” I answer.  “See this couple walking by?”  my husband points.  She is all but four inches away from me.  “He is a trust fund baby,” my husband shakes his head disapprovingly.  “He doesn’t work.”  I say.  “She is studying at Bank Street.  He is an art collector.  They inherited money and they live in a fabulous two bedroom apartment with floor to ceiling glass windows that overlook Riverside Park.  They are on a high floor and they can see straight across the river to New Jersey.”

What kind of games do you play with your spouse?  Do you play real estate and go shopping for homes you know you will never buy?  Do you play yachting where you go look for boats you know you cannot afford?  Do you go to auctions and pretend you are going to buy valuable antiques?  Do you spend time looking for artwork that you wish you could afford the insurance on?