I am fifty-three now, and my first book will be published this spring. I have been writing for eighteen years. I have been longing to write since I was eight. For an entire decade, in my twenties, I forbade myself to write anything at all. I was unhappy. What was the point? The world had abundant evidence of sorrow already. And I had a burning trapezoid.
The hand-box has not changed, though it looks bigger now. I see it bigger. Constriction is a writer’s friend. Legions of spirits therein.