Two old women were visiting.  “Do you believe in the Hereafter?” one asked.

“You bet I do,” the other replied.  “Usually when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I think Now what did I come down here after?”

My memory isn’t what it used to be, and Hubby says it’s because I spend more time thinking about characters and plots than reality.  And he’s probably right (shh, don’t tell him I said that).  Often when I get to the bottom of the stairs, I run back up because: A) I just figured out the perfect wording for a sentence and must get it down before it slips away, or B) I hope returning to my point of origin will remind me why I left the office in the first place.

At least a bad memory gives me an aerobic workout.

Back when I was in high school and taking every English class they had to offer, the teacher was aware of my writing aspirations.  During our study of various authors, we noticed a trend:  It seemed they were all alcoholics, adulterers, or wound up committing suicide.  She wryly observed, “It’s looking like writers have mental problems!”

(Or she said something to that effect.  I don’t remember the exact words….)

So while you don’t have to be a boozehound skipping out on your spouse and contemplating how to end it all, a little mental irregularity probably does help with being a writer.  If I’m forgetful because I’m trying to wrap my head around how magnetoplasmadynamic (that’s a real word, folks) thrusters work, so be it.

So now that I’ve posted this blog I’ve almost forgot about, it’s time to go downstairs and … do something….

Now what did I come down here after?