An old picture of my ugly sisters and me, for posting which they will kill me. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take because I have been dawdling all day and have nothing of any value whatsoever to say.

I doubt even these few words are worth posting. What I do know is that if I look at my journal entries with that sort of eye all the time, I’ll edit it right out of existence.

I am a letter writer. I am not a fiction writer, an essayist, a researcher. I write letters. It’s what I do.

The Letter Writer. It should be the name of my book. If I wrote one.