I've decided to live to be a viable 125 years. As opposed to an unviable 125. Perhaps I should say a functioning 125. I mean, what's the point if you can't think, read or write? I have a delightful, self-sufficient, perky, still-lives-alone friend who is 104 and she's sharp as a spike on on a sweetgum seed pod in my yard (I love that tree). Dr. Oz says it is entirely within the realm of possibility; living to 125, not spikes on the sweetgum pod.
At any rate, I have entirely too much writing to do to get it all finished before the insurance statistician says I will die. I mean, Domus is finished, but not published. Domus being this kingdom of Fey where Lichen Ipse, an F 22 Raptor pilot finds his grandfather, his soul, his true love and manages to rescue the entire Kingdom from annihilation. Cool guy. And, then there is Hopscotch, a murder mystery that doesn't even have its corpse yet. Not to even mention (but I will) the non-fiction book: The Herbalist Is In...a hands-on compendium of my herbal encounters that's like condiments, sweet, sour and surprising.
The way I see it, 125 years may not even do it. In which case I will leave detailed instructions to my progeny on how to finish all my projects. Just feeding my worm farm, yogurt, starter dough and kombacha brew could take hours if you don't know what you're doing.
So, I'd better hop to.....gotta get a proposal out. Hey, have a monumental day. :) Lizzy