​My reuse/repurpose heart cannot bear to toss perfectly usable bottles and jars. Never mind that I have no place to store them, that I’ll never make seasoned oils in those with elegant long necks, that I have scores of other containers for storing/
​sharing leftovers. If it’s washable and has potential for shaking, gifting, or storing, I save it.
 
To my credit, I have all the lids. And my environmentally-minded intentions are good. But do I really need proof of how much gelato I consume? And don’t all those jars pleading to be filled with something homemade make me feel more than a bit guilty?

Fully aware I’ll need some of them someday for something, I’ve opted to reduce – which goes well with reuse and repurpose. Canning jars and corked bottles have moved to the donation pile, others to the recycle bin. The remaining 19 (of 46) are safe.

​For now.
 ​

​I confess: I am an unwriter.
 
For decades, I’ve thought of myself as a writer-in-the-making. I’ve read about how writers prepare/process/discipline themselves; I’ve participated in workshops and devoured essays, articles, books, and blogs of those whose work inspires and encourages me to persist. Yet, despite not actually practicing successful writers’ strategies, and having a pitifully small body of “completed” writing, I’ve maintained my self-delusion. Until now.
 
As an unwriter, I make up clever stories. In my head. I get excited about something writable, then diffuse the energy by talking about it or getting distracted by the next exciting something. I don’t jot writing ideas on torn napkins or notes apps, or keep a useful journal, or set aside regular writing time. I am a champion unwriter.
 
I could probably start a business that helps others to become successful unwriters. Won’t happen, though. I’m also an unentrepreneur.