I intensely dislike "vaguebooking," and I very, very rarely do it, but occasionally it's what's required. If I were to do it now, for instance, what I might say is this—I have another two and a half years to go before I'm declared "cured" of my cancer; until then, my life revolves around biannual scans and tests, and daily monitoring of my body, including a reflexive, sinking dread at the appearance of any unexplained pain, swelling, or fever. It's tiresome, believe me. I lost two creative years of my writing life while I was undergoing six operations and months of chemotherapy, but I was still able to get a book out this past summer. I'm low-key fighting to stay alive and to leave a few more books behind in case I fail. I don't have time for Internet drama, or ugly, spiteful chatterbox personal gossip on social media. Literally all I have time for is my husband of almost forty years, the final months of my Labrador Beckett's life, my family of the heart, my godchildren, my mentees, my wonderful real friends, my work, and my gratitude for all of it. You know, real-life shit. Also, I am sixty-two years old, and time moves in one direction only. Attempts by silly, self-important members of self-appointed cliques to drag me into their low-rent, sub-par social media backstabbing campaigns, or lies, or gutter-trash character assassinations, will be met with a polite, but firm, "no thank you," and a sincerely meant query regarding why my engager doesn't seem to have a life of his/her/their own—a life worth curating in an intelligent, creative, positive, loving way. C'est tout.
