I am not (usually) going to talk about myself unless it’s a thinly veiled narrative tightly (not loosely) based on my own life – here’s looking at you, Theresa. I will not tell you what I think you should eat, or how you should raise your children or what crafts I think it would be fun if you made. I won’t tell you what products were used in the making of this grouping of haiku and narrative. I won’t post photo after photo after photo of my life or my eyes or my ears or my kid. I like all those things, very much, even love some of them, but I won’t share it with you. I won’t tell you about being at an art show in an old warehouse and walking back through the cavernous rooms to the restroom, feeling like a stranger and wanting to run out the side door. About how it had been months since I had been out by myself, no husband, no child – and when I was at the gallery opening I just wanted to (cue Greta Garbo voice) be left alone. So I left early, and walked around the busy downtown streets and kept looking for people I knew so I wouldn’t be alone. I won’t tell you about that, either, or how silly I felt in my malformed emotional state.
But I appreciate that you (who are you, anyway?) are here. I promise to keep writing, because I can’t seem to stop. Do any other fiction writers feel the same? Like the people who write have just barged in your head and won’t leave until their story is played out? And if you leave them there they seem to be left in some sort of suspended animation, checking their watches and waiting patiently for you to listen again? They’re like children, listen to me, pay attention to me. And the most urgent: write it down, please.
Again, I’m glad you’re here. It means you might be like me and want something different in your cerebral and terrestrial world. Would you mind raising your hand? Introducing yourself? If you don’t mind, and thanks.