Welcome To My Bed

Magic morsels #10 and 11.

Oh Maggie Atwood, you are such a gem. I think I may be partial to Maggies. I think that may be why some masochistic part of me enjoys Los Angeles.

Momentary digression where I insert a poem video that may or may not apply to the above claim:

Isn't it weird to be so lucky that when you wish people you know were around more often that you can look them up on youtube and watch them talk about things they care enough to write about? Isn't the internet weird??

Phew! Digression complete. Back to Maggie Atwood and being a gem:

"An interview is also a performance, and although a performance can reveal much, its revelations are selective, and its omissions and concealments are often as instructive as its grand pronouncements.... Sometimes a writer doesn't want to tell; sometimes a writer has forgotten.... Writers are human beings; they too inhabit bodies, had childhoods, get through the day somehow, experience joy and fear and boredom, confront death. The rabbits they produce are only common rabbits, after all; it's the hat that's magic. And yet it is only a hat. This is what fuels our curiosity: the mix of the familiar, even the banal, and the radically inexplicable."

From the new introduction to Paris Review collection Women Writers at Work.

On a semi-related note, I am starting the outlining process for a series of personal essays on what different kinds of writing mean to me. On another, also semi-related, note, I was offered a feature today. And there was lots of sun. And both of my sisters made me laugh. Other than that, my current brain is up for grabs here.