The way We Were

       Genuinely speaking, - the genesis of that qualification, bye the bye, simply bears witness to the fact that eighty per cent of what I write is written because I am moved - bulldozed even - to share what I feel are significant ruminations and observations.
       The remaining twenty per cent has been urged upon me as material that someone else wants to say - and would but for lack of a forum.  Writing from emotion and intuition, never concerned with the trappings of accuracy nor the drudgery of plodding through authoritative tomes in search of factual data that would lend some insight or significance, even, to my scribnership, fits comfortably, tattered T-shirt-like.
       This actually makes sense (another non-concern) as it mirrors reading habits.  Rarely is anything read in its entirety unless it moves me, actually precipitates an irresistible commitment to continue.  (I think now how fortunate this was for my children that I wasn't thusly 'grabbed' by Anna Karenina when there were children, a husband and a dog relying on wife/mother's industry for the procurement/preparation of food and the civilized requisite of clean clothing at the ready.)
       Having evolved into my present passage (to which we have a right), it followed naturally that I distance myself from writing 'groups' and organizations.  This because the element of common denomination that forges these entities is something of a 'mission statement' (we write; like to be in the company of writers; wish to become. . . point made) that involves/ requires regular conventions and workshops.
       These gatherings, dedicated to writing, are hallmarked by the hosting of known/successful authors who speak to the assembled 'would-bes', pleasantly but tutorially nevertheless

(aside: "Me at writers' meeting dreaming of being with the ole 'Round Table Gang'.)
often with a soupcon of smugness, always with a truckload of copies of their latest opus on display, prepped and ready for that personal note written to the drooling purchaser, signed by the known, accomplished hawker.

       For sixty-some years, I've preferred - whenever possible and surrounded by my favorite things/people -

MY STATIONARY

 







 (COMFY PILLOWS)

(JUST 'being' with the grand peeps)
I'll assume you get the picture(s). - no pun, just FUN.  And that is what truly inspires an introvert - in the Jungian sense - like me.  It's also, perhaps, why so many writers are introverts.  They are affected by what their environment does to them - working in obscurity.  I daresay - and you can see - I've fixed the place up somewhat tastefully (mine), adorned it with an ambiance that will allow for remaining here, untarnished by commercial success and soaking in blissful lack of conventionality and sagacity as long as I remain among the quick.
       UNLESS.  There was a break-in, so to speak, last week.  It came in the form of a missive which presented itself as a legitimate correspondence to me from one Ms. Elise Warren, Guest Services Manager for U S Airlines.  It seemed I was the fortunate recipient of an award - valuable at that - entitling me to two free airline tickets to ANYWHERE in the continental US PLUS two free nights for two cozy occupants at any Marriott Hotel location.
       With Thanksgiving soon trotting up to our door and a brand new peep - Wee Wes Compton - in Boston, my ebullience was barely containable.  As hurried/harried investigation would prove, it was also entirely unwarranted as well.  The infamous Warren wench, I discovered - on an extremely rare foray into the investigative journalism arena - was entirely bogus and I cruelly beset upon.
       Such is the downside of introversion.  We become prey to the negative elements of our environment, never having acquired the skills of the 'artful dodger'.  (To be perfectly honest, the word was deleted from my hard drive when they closed Ebbett's Field.)  The gonfalon bubble was pierced and the sport itself followed only literally.  Ms. Warren had visited upon me pain greater than the lance that became known as "Tinker To Evers To Chance".

       It' been said that "Men never make passes at girls who wear glasses".  I would profer a warning: to the careless, 'Introverted masses', sans rigid Arthurian mail, we are ripe for transformation to asses.'  We are safer, happiest, the way we were. 
Later, Lorane. . . .