At this point, is it too late to figure out who I am. Are there still surprises that lay ahead of me, not trivial but life-changing events that can alter the direction of my life. When I read A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg, that is what I think of. To spend the day aerating her flour and write about it... That is not me (or is it).

I have another book my desk: A Writer's Workbook by Caroline Sharp. I have no intention of "working it up", just reading it for pleasure and inspiration (since it is recommended by Elizabeth Gilbert). I also have dozens of journal articles, TH emails, and a chapter on lupus awaiting my attention. Are my diverting interests conflicting or harmonious? Will they make me a more wholesome person or tare me in a thousand different directions?

That remains to be seen...