Sunday writing

It's Jane Austen's birthday today. Go Jane! I've just discovered some Darcy and Wentworth diary spinoffs. I'm hoping they're as good as they sound.

I'm upset and unnerved that Terry Pratchett has Alzheimer's disease. For someone who writes what he writes, which is just packed with imagination, it must be scary to find that the brain fueling all that is turning against you. I'd be miffed if it were me. He's being cheerful, and sensibly reminding people that he's not dead yet and has at least a few more books in him.

There was a great piece on Sunday Morning about writers who paint. They show a clip of Kurt Vonnegut, a writer who painted, and he said, "I'm not an artist, but I recommend that people practice art, no matter how badly, because it's known to make a soul grow." Susan Minot said that she wanted to paint but needed to write, which is a great way to put it. Even Einstein did things other than math and physics. I don't feel so weird doing both now, and I feel a little less guilty about also doing the needlework thing and possibly starting a dollhouse - I was inspired by my friend Jane's dollhouse and a piece Sunday Morning did last week, and I think I've found one to get going with. Em and I didn't have a dollhouse when we were kids. We improvised by turning the fridge of our kitchen playset into an apartment building.

And for something entirely unrelated, I can't quite decide what I think of glow-in-the-dark cats.