I've always thought that it was quite amazing that I turned out to be like my mother, with her love of strong tea, all things English and her strong political views. But in looking back I see more superficial similarities to my mother and more deep-seated similarities to my father.

My mother operated from her left brain mostly. She was good at math, She kept facts in her head supporting her views and opinions. She was very practical, pragmatic and terribly efficient.  She turned a windfall into a lifeline that made her senior years quite comfortable.  I share none of those attributes.

My father on the other hand lived by the seat of his pants. Money floated away in vats full of booze. When he wasn't drinking it away he was busy recovering his losses. After he and mom split up he only ever managed to live very sparsely. I'm like that with money - comes and goes - mostly goes. I don't live sparsely. I live with Carol in a beautiful 1600 square foot condo in what is almost paradise but if I were alone it would be quite a different story.

I remember being with my father on Saturday afternoons listening to the live broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera. He had a grey, metal typewriter table with an old Underwood ensconced in the middle and unfinished manuscript on the sides of the table, on the floor, anywhere on his side of the room. I'm not so different. I have two unfinished manuscripts lying around my house and copious notes in notebooks and file cards that could make up a third manuscript if I would convert those notes into a manuscript.

What is the lesson here? That I fail because I haven't tried to put the finishing touches on them. Well, to be fair to myself, I had sent the first book out and was rejected but got some encouraging feedback. The failure of mine was that I wasn't willing to do the work to publish the book. And my second book? I look at it in a folder under my desk everyday.

So what is my next step? Think I'll paint after I publish this blog.