Cut & Paste

There's an inch of snow on the ground here, suddenly.

If I read it in a book, I would probably be moved by parts of it, but I'm automatically suspicious of anyone who is willing to just slap so much of themselves onto a paper plate and paste it on the wall for the world to see. Plus: sometimes she comes across as though she sees herself as the main character in a chick-lit, romance novel (dime a dozen...or three for the price of two, at any rate), or worse yet, Sex in the City. We can't all be fabulous, some of us just have to be real.

But maybe I need to figure out how to do that--somehow extricate myself from my writing so it isn't so personal.

Get ready-- this is the true confessions part that always seems to make him squirm a bit: Writing is the thing that I know (or think that I know) that I can do well. And if I did it and it turns out that I can't do it, I don't know what I would do.

The day that our friend -- so self-assured, so assuring-- didn't get accepted to his program is a day that I won't let myself forget.

It could be sort of like that, but much bigger, much deeper.