[2-min read] I’ve been editing my brains out lately and apparently, I neglect transitions. The professional editor to whom I paid a chunk of change to help with my memoir advises me again and again, “What about adding a sentence here to create a smoother transition?”

Hold on. I can’t skip from topic to topic and expect the reader to keep up? Have you never had a conversation with me? It’s my modus operandi to jump around. Give me a glass of wine and hold onto your hat; it’s a fast ride. And it’s so much more fun to write like I talk.

Enough about writing, though. (How’s that for a lame transition?) What about life? Don’t I get bonus points for how much transition I’ve endured in my life? I’ve transitioned from the high desert to the Midwest; from a single-family home to a condo; from driving everywhere to biking or walking. I transitioned from being a social butterfly to living in isolation. These are big deals. I’m worn out, people. And what about while I was growing up? Back then, I frequently transitioned from one apartment, school, or city to another as if I were a military kid. (I wasn’t.) Transition is my middle name. (It isn’t.) I want a prize.

It feels like the country is transitioning into the last phase or three of the pandemic – barring another setback. I’ve spent over a year transitioning into a homebody, but now I’m supposed to transition back into someone who is comfortable not crossing the street to pass people on the sidewalk; sitting in circumstances resembling a crowd; using public restrooms that don’t have windows; buying clothes from a store – perhaps even trying them on first; and seeing the dentist?

Fingers crossed I do better with those challenges than I’m managing with memoir transitions.

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