Despite all these outings as a writer, not just as a blogger but as a poet and novelist, too, let me confess, I …
- Almost always feel like an outsider.
- Struggle at small talk.
- Look at idealized writer’s studios and realize they could have been what’s now my bedroom.
- Can be blamed for too often having taken my romantic partner as a muse.
- Can’t stand wet feet unless I’m swimming. Or, more frequently, showering.
- Assume true love always involves pain.
- Had some horrid toilet-training that lingers.
- Love foggy mornings when I linger in bed, sipping decaf (these days) and reading.
- Add to that listening to the rain muffled on the metal roof just overhead, perhaps while falling asleep.
- Can’t keep up with all the reading I attempt to do, much less any of the rest I should be tackling.
I gave up on toilet training when I realized that porcelain is unresponsive. If you managed to train yours you are a better man than me.