She Hasn’t Really Spoken to me Since


A few days ago, I contemplated publishing my papers as references.  Tracking down the files has proved to be difficult as they are scattered over several hard drives, separated by literally half the world, but fear not, I have begun the process.

While engaging in this feral cat roundup, a momentary diversion from L’homme Theroux due to a revelation regarding the plot that requires me to let things cool off a bit while I get my head straight, I encountered a letter I wrote to my Aunt Marie about a year before I stopped writing.  On finding I published writer in a magazine she recognized, my aunt was immensely proud to have what she assumed would be a fellow literary sort in the family.  She was quickly horrified to realize I am more Mickey Spillane than James Joyce.

The letter was originally had written, typed on my Royal Quite DeLuxe portable as a writing exercise, then retyped on my computer to save.  Yes, I still go old school once in a while when I need to slow down, think things through, and remind myself that writing isn’t for sissies.  Does anyone know where I can get a new ribbon for this thing?  I can hardly see the letters anymore.

Here is the letter.  I guess I haven’t changed much in a decade.

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