At age 72, as a writer, every word is Emitted.

Truth?

Most are Omitted, once sobriety has its hands on the wheel again.

At age 72, as a writer ~ in some small, profession-bound ways successful; unsuccessful in airport best-seller nor respectable academic ways ~ every word I utter is either truth or a gainfully employed lie.

Best I can do, DieDie.

Friend, Roger C., called it my "hustle."

What I do that no one except me can do just the same. Roger did extremely well by any normal material standard. He's worked hard. He's flauntingly entrepreneurial. He has a enviable house on the most expensive land on the planet.

AND ...  raised Quaker in a small business, he has the uncomplicated good heart of Bambi's mom and the swift intelligence of an alien space commander.

As Roger says, I have a hustle.

Mine is tissue thin. I just want to play with words. My ideal fate would be a long prison sentence, Scrabble, and lots of dictionaries.

 

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