Sorry about the posting fail on Friday. Because of (insert “blah, blah, blah,” here) I’ve had to postpone the next installment until this coming Friday.
Having made my excuses, I can’t pass up the day without mentioning a person who was instrumental in my development as both a person and a writer, my grandmother, who departed this life six years ago today. Not only did she tolerate me being up her ass twenty-four-seven during the summers (a feat unto itself); she bought me books whenever we were together, and suffered through my childhood attempts at playwriting with a fortitude not easily mustered. She was one of my first audiences, and her patient encouragement helped me gain the courage to seek out others. And it was in dealing with her death that I finally took my novel writing desire seriously.
So, if you dig what I do, then honor her by taking a swig of diet coke and scarfing down some Entemann’s breakfast confections.
She’ll get a kick out of that.