All these thoughts about age, and I just can’t find a narrative to tie them together. Ten points if anyone else manages it.

• Every time I’ve gone to the liquor store in the past few weeks, they’ve asked me to donate to dry grad. I just can’t do it. I mean, I’m technically against underage drinking. But to donate to this cause seems like such a betrayal of my 17-year-old self. Besides the fact that the starving children of the world could use some cash, too. Do I really have to pay the teens of Kitsilano to pretend not to drink?
• Min and his friends have been discussing a Globe and Mail article about why old men stare at young women. The gist of it: in their heads, old guys are still 17. Which makes sense to me, in a weird way, as a children’s writer. I spend half my time thinking like a 13-year-old.
• I once heard Kit Pearson suggest that every children’s author is mentally stuck at a certain age. Picture book writers can vividly remember what it is to be five years old. Middle grade writers are deeply in touch with their inner 12-year-old, etc.
• My university dorm-mate, Lori, had a theory that everyone has a best age. Some people peak at 17, as the most popular kid in school. Some are at their best as the parent of a baby, or as 50-year-old CEOs. Some people go through years of being mediocre, only to become the best grandparent ever. I like this theory, actually. As long as I haven’t hit my best age yet.