It was snowing and I'd found the garden gloves, the ones I'd bought late this summer when I was going to clear out all the blackberries and burdock so they didn't take possession of my yard. It was snowing and I was wearing my garden gloves and riding my bike, and my feet were cold even through the two pairs of wool socks and the way my cheeks felt in the wind and snow? I didn't know whether to love it or cry.
I used to have compartments. I'd put things in them, like the way my goosebumps trail up the insides of my arms or;
It is the problem of second person: the addressee. That is the question. And the way I write second person? I fail to mark transitions between "you," the reader, and "you," me putting you inside my skin. And then there's you.
Making confessions became my game, then, my practice, lopping off a length of truth and handing it to him like something, a peace offering, maybe a token like one you'd hand to a knight going into combat. -- not a war, I mean -- more of a jousting match --.
Be brave. Be more brave than you think you can be.
I am not taking my advice. I am starting essays I cannot finish.
Like that. Like that. Don't wait for it because it's not coming. I'll find something else to write about that's safe. And when I say "safe" I mean appalling but not in the same way, do you know "safe" is a different word for me now that I'm 40 and because of a variety of things not-the-least-of-which-is divorce having to forge a new sort of identity.
"Writer," then, that's my identity, writer and mother and striver-not-to-yield. That's what.
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