Dear my dears,
This is the part of me I have neglected for so long. My running monologue, my preposterous personas, my artless utterings. I would talk to myself out loud all day long if left to it. The minute I’m alone, my mouth opens and fragments and half-questions falls from my lips. Usually about weather or coffee or chores. But then again, sometimes, I swear, I am more interesting than that.
Where to begin.
I made my first book when I was 23. And now I am 41. I know that is a surprise to some of you. Age is a mind-fuck for me. I know I am an adult and am supposed to be an authority, but I still feel high school on my skin. We can’t escape our younger selves altogether. It’s true.
Sometimes I can’t believe we are middle age. We are the MIDDLE AGE. We are still drinking beers and sitting on porches and dreaming of our best selves. But it’s more like 8 pm instead of 2 am, and we’ve been discussing schools, politics and school politics… and we have to watch what we’re saying because our smart and inquisitive kids are always listening…