Vivian Blaxell
The disappointments
At my age, the dust of my own mortality falls upon me from dark and waiting stars and there could be much to be disappointed about...I could be disappointed that, even now, most of my writing goes down like a lead balloon, that I do not own my own home, that I am not yet a critically successful novelist, that The Drum does not invite me to share my senseless opinions with other senseless opinions, that This American Life has never called to tell me Ira Glass wants my life, that I have forgotten what it is to live in the countryside...