Linda's Girl 2007-06-05 9:05 p.m.


I watched part of a one and only interview with a great American author today; I had never heard of him, but that, I suppose, is beside the point. I don't read.

He was a regular man with grey hair and blue yes. His face was lined with age and memories and his eyes were glazed over from the imagination running a rat race behind them.

He reminded me of me in ways. I'm not an Irish-American in my sixties, nor am I accomplished by any stretch, but the things he said about the state of his mind as he writes - how he thinks in the moment the pages he writes are only a couple of pages of a thought - no more or less, is very much how I think about my pads of paper and scribbles on napkins.

Words. No more, no less. Words in a moment that meant something within a moment... like a small lightbox of opportunity come and now gone... I don't dream that someday someone will find the clockworks of my mind and sell it piece by piece for millions.

I'm sure, in fact, that won't happen.

My mother would love it, though... and because of this man, one day I promise I will write a book for her.

Linda's Girl.


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