And so, a possible small town paper might be a job for me, thought Carly or maybe not and best friend Jana claimed her writing sold itself, the proof was in the pudding, what ever that meant. Days later, when Carly had given up hope of hearing from Jana, she called, sending Carly into a tailspin when she said, “They like your work and want to meet you tomorrow at 10 a.m. “Wait, don’t hang up, why do they want to meet me? and uh, what do I wear, say, do? Carly whined like a champion whiner as she said, “Jana, I’ve never had a job outside the slavery performed in my home and then she cried big tears and felt like a fool. Okay, she thought, and began to write: Moving On, Column 1 What happens when you are mid-fifties with no safety net waiting after your loved one dies? Learning by trial and error, I found some solutions and decided to keep a journal about stumbling through the minefield of Moving On. I hope my experiences will provide a map for both men and women whose feet seem to be planted in mid-air. See you next week, reader o’mine I welcome a word or two from you.
Carly thought she’d go in with confidence the next day, first column written, dressed great by Jana, Q&A’d like she was studying for SAT’s. . .so why does she feel like a tower of Jello?