A Library Is A Feast To Which

What I Really Want To Do Is To Write A Hilarious Farce.

Still, I Kept Writing. I Had No Guarantee That I Would Someday Win Awards For Writing. Heavens, The Only Person During That Time Who Seemed To Think I Could Write Something Worth Publishing Was My Loyal Husband. But I Always Remembered The Professor From Graduate School Who Urged Me To Write And Who Recommended Me For That First Writing Assignment In 1964. When I Protested To Sara Little That I Didn't Want To Add Another Mediocre Writer To The World, She Gently Reminded Me That If I Didn't Dare Mediocrity, I Would Never Write Anything At All.

My Heart Is Heavy, She Thought. It’s Not Just A Saying. It Is What Is—heavy, A Great Stone Lodged In My Breast, Pressing Down My Whole Being. How Can I Even Stand Straight And Look Out Upon The World? I Am Doubled Over Into Myself And, For All The Weight, Find Only Emptiness.

Once A Book Is Published, It No Longer Belongs To Me. My Creative Task Is Done. The Work Now Belongs To The Creative Mind Of My Readers. I Had My Turn To Make Of It What I Would, Now It Is Their Turn.

I Was Behaving, Just Like I Promised, But Fate Intervened.