I am a terrible photographer. I realized while in Burma that I fail in picture-taking for the same reasons I failed at journalism. I hate invading people’s privacy. I can’t just whip up a camera and snap the face of a stranger with interesting sandalwood make-up or particularly beautiful eyes.

My oh-so-subtle approaches lead to photos like this one, of an old woman with a huge cheroot, taken the moment after she turns away.

Or this one, of the woman with the bundle on her head, who’s too far away to clearly see.

I’ve decided to consider this sensitivity to privacy as an asset to a novelist, who must spend hours carefully recreating the details of fictional minds.

But that’s just my way of making myself feel better about my lack of a future in photojournalism.

My daughter and I have been watching The Voice, in which mainly young people compete to be the world’s next musical star.

While it’s all very exciting, I spend most of my time fretting for the ones who are kicked off early. It seems like such a harsh industry. Not only do these singers face the same sort of rejection and isolation that other artists face, but their hopes are restricted to a short window of their lives. If they haven’t achieved success by 30 in the music scene, it seems much, much harder to do so.

The show is making me thankful that I felt compelled, as a teen, to pursue writing and not music. In writing, you have decades to find your voice and hone your craft. You can reinvent yourself with each book. In music, you have a few years to try for stardom, and it seems as if you’re allowed to reinvent yourself with a song, but only if you’re already famous.

Then again, maybe the thirty-something country star will win The Voice, and prove all my theories wrong. I sort of hope he does. And not just because of his leather jacket…

Backyard. Tinywood office. Hot tub.

Can anyone else see the possibilities here?

1. The strike is over! Schools are opening on Monday. Glory, hallelujah!

2. I’m going to drop my kids off at school, and then I’m going to drink coffee in silence, and write, and finish reading A Tale for the Time Being, and have a pedicure, and call my mom and have an actual conversation. That could be all in Day One. Days, glorious days of writing are stretching into my future.

3. Am I a bad mother for feeling this way? Kids need education, right? It’s good for them to go back to school. Yup, not just good for me. Good for them as well.

4. Unless there’s an earthquake. Oh my goodness, what if there’s an earthquake? Then they’ll be crushed beneath falling bricks, all because I wanted to drink coffee by myself. I am the most selfish person ever to exist on the earth.

5. I should homeschool.

6. Then I would go insane.

7. It may be too late for that particular worry.

Me: We have to get you some new long johns for soccer.

MonkeyGirl: Why do they have to call them long johns? Why not soccer pants?

Me: Actually, there was this heavyweight boxer named John Sullivan. All the other boxers wore shorts, but he wore long pants, so they called them long johns…

MonkeyGirl: I didn’t want to hear the story, Mom. I just want you to call them soccer pants.