Wednesday, April 2, 2008


The idea is to approach this like I do the ubiquitous blue bound books I've been writing in since the age of 14. The reflections of the Word, words, the world the same as always--only now with a delete button. I'm not one of those diarists who gather their diaries in a heap at the end of their lives and light a match to them, afraid of what their children or spouse might discover about them. I'm a writer. I want readers. Always have. From the beginning, in my journals I imagined the person I was addressing my words--the conversation I was having with her on the page. And now I know what she looks like--what they look like--there are three of them, with dark hair, with green and blue and brown eyes. Tall and smart and somewhat mocking, ready to catch me at any inconsistency, keeping me on my toes. Sometimes appreciative, though not nearly as often as I might like. But they might say the same of me.

So I start, not in the beginning, not with a hello or introduction, but already conversing, midstream.

Midlife, so to speak.

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