-- Thursday, July 8, 1999 --

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11:52 a.m. Well, I did it. I jumped right the heck in and posted a timid little note and really, it wasn't so bad. Actually, to tell the truth, it's a whole lot more fun than sitting out the inning. And, sure you get a little excited ... I always get too excited ... so I did a little dance of joy and then I cleaned the bathroom. Works off the excitement.

I used to believe that a Real Riter would lead a quiet, peaceful, contemplative life. No bursting, flitting dances of joy, ever. Rather, the minuet of amusement, maybe, at the most. In fact, in trying to be a Real Riter, I've actually managed to do what many people only dream of: I quit my day job and devoted myself to writing, nothing but writing. Writing of the serious sort. The kind where you stare at the screen until your eyes bleed.

Forget the fact that I actually wrote, rewrote, and published a novel before I thought I was real. I believed, of course, that it was all a fluke, and once I was able to sit down and really concentrate, well --

Well?

I wanted to go back to the 0s and 1s of my base program and try to fix things at the core, to undo some of the stranger things I was taught as a kid. When I was growing up, God help you if it was "a beautiful day." You'd better not be inside the house, and if you had your nose-ina-book you were further doomed. Parents say the darndest things. And kids always try to please.

I used to pretend I was switched at birth by evil hospital employees. I wanted to come from a bookish family, an academic family, a family who used place mats. I wanted a bespeckled set of parents who would push me into creative work and pat me on the head and hang my essay on the fridge. I wanted to have Joyce Maynard's parents.

There is a parable that goes something like this: Let's say you were able to go to the desert and make a big pile out of your problems. Once you were finished, you're able to look around and see all the other people standing in front of their own piles of misery and lamentations ... and you're allowed to exchange troubles with anyone you choose. What would you do?

You go home with your own problems, thank you very much. Sorry. Didn't mean to complain; I'll just be heading on back now, work on this stuff some more --

Way back when I lived on that snow-covered street, when I-95 was still just a glimmer in the Mafia's eye, way back many many winters and summers ago, I remember looking forlornly down that street and wishing I were anywhere else but there.

Be careful what you wish for.

Tomorrow ...