Before I started doing contract work, Friday was my day to celebrate, since I’d survived another week on the job. Boy, did I look forward to every second of those 2 consecutive days off. That probably should have told me something.

With contract work, weekends don’t mean much, because I never know when the work is going to dry up, so my tendency is to start as soon as the ink dries and just keep going. Every contract will end sooner or later.

One constant that serves as a mental touchstone is writing. No matter what’s going on, I find some time to write every day. Whether it’s the novel, a screenplay or revisions, it’s about the only thing I have control over. Even that control is an illusion, because I don’t know what’s going to come out of the pages I write. Maybe people will like them, maybe they won’t. It’s not for me to say or predict.

I only control the knowledge that I’m going to keep going. And whatever end is out there waiting for me, my present course continues.

I was all set to wish everyone a great weekend and share the latest updates on the book, when I saw the news that novelist Olivia Goldsmith died, and it made me pause. The word at the time of this writing is that she died of complications from general anesthesia during plastic surgery.

First, I want to extend my condolences to her family, my heart goes out to you at this terrible time of tragedy. She was a great talent and will be missed.

Unfortunately this is not the only time someone has had serious complications during plastic surgery. The plastic surgery industry prides itself on the risk being very low, and the numbers tend to bear this claim out. But, a doctor has no way of knowing a patient might have a bad reaction to general anesthesia.

I doubt any surgeon would perform an elective operation if they knew that a patient would certainly die during the procedure.

I know someone who has had three elective plastic surgery procedures that involve general anesthesia in the last year. This is despite the fact that they’re beautiful already. And I really, really, really want them to quit. So, to that person, and you know who you are, if you’re reading this, please stop. You’re beautiful and I love you for who you are.

There’s way too much snow outside for my liking. I can remember when this kind of weather was exciting; each new layer of fresh powder goodness was a blessed event. Then I lived in upstate New York for a few years and learned what real snow was. My love affair with winter began to fade.

The older I get, the less appeal winter holds for me, the more I think I want to pack up and live like Hemingway down in Key West, Florida. Under my sweater, I’m wearing my favorite T-shirt. It’s white with a black sketch drawing of a cat with six toes and the title, Hemingway House. As I write this, I’m sneaking glances at a panoramic picture of a tropical paradise that sits on top of my monitor, wishing I was in the photo.

But at the same time, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Living here was a choice, not a prison sentence. And that’s what I try and remember every day, that living here is a choice I’ve made. Even when it’s 0 degrees outside and there’s a half foot of snow on the ground.