Yet another working weekend, but this time I'm having fun. Today I was writing about Iceland, a place I'd love to visit. In fact, I've found a package tour for $449--three nights in Reykjavik, three Scandinavian breakfasts, a few tours, and airfare included. (Look under "Special Tours" and click on "Honeymoon Express." I can't do three nights in a decent hotel in New York for that price. The only hitch? It's in February! And I'll also bet they won't let me do it as a single. (Ken says he'll bow out of this lunacy.) But stay tuned in the days to come for the juicier details that have me actually considering it.

I've been meaning to write about the adventures of Clare Morrall, the first-time novelist who was short-listed for the Booker Prize in 2003. Her book, Astonishing Splashes of Color, was published in the U.S. this year. What I find so interesting is the story of her path to publication. It's the "out of nowhere a writer emerges" kind of story, which I love. Even better, Morrall was fifty-one when she published it. As I've noted here before, there's nothing that gets the old blood circulating faster than a late-bloomer success story.