When I go out walking, inevitably, I will pick up something I find on the ground - usually a rock or a stick - and hold it in my hand while I walk, and if it is a real find, I will tuck it in my pocket and keep it for later. India is the same way, and I need to get better at checking her pants before I throw things in the wash because there have been messes and loud crashings and bangings in the dryer and one day something will get stuck and I'll be in trouble.
I've been out wandering. Picking things up and shoving them into a pocket. I've been thinking about writer as servant, as independent, as dependent, as private figure, as public figure, as artist, as professional, as watcher, as collector, as distiller. There is a lot of Romantic gobbledygook surrounding the persona of being a writer, and because I own the sort of heart that is susceptible to Romantic gobbledygook, I have had to sludge my way through the bullshit to get to the truth. Of course, I'm not through it all yet, but I'm trying. Forgive my lapses.
All of that is to say that if there are any of you left reading, if you are curious, or bored, or just looking for a link to follow, you can find me here, for now.