Imagine my surprise today to learn that the The Writer magazine is going on hiatus. Thanks, Donna, for keeping us informed.
Now I must find something else to stack to great heights on my lamp table, piled askew like a wayward column in a less-than-sober game of Jenga, a leaning literary tower of Pisa-like engineering.
I don't mean to put on airs. Get all highfalutin. But I sometimes think of myself as TheWriter. You know. Like Christopher Walken is The Continenal on SNL. Except that I don't have a pencil-thin mustache, wear a smoking jacket, or offer guests champagne as I try to lure them behind closed doors.
No, I am no Continental. I am TheWriter. Which is not to say that I am all thin and glossy and uniformly shaped, full of helpful information on writing. Nor do I slap a label near my bottom, curl up around Victoria's Secret and the cable bill, and wait for you to squeeze me out of your mailbox, stash me in your armpit, then spread me across your lap.
I try to put entertainment on a page. Like caviar on a toast point. An hors d'oeuvre for the mind. I've tried to steep my gray matter in the work of TheWriters who preceded me. "What fresh not-heaven is this?" I ask, upon hearing someone tap tap tapping at my chamber door. "Shall I invite him in, risking a slow, wasting death from blood loss after two odd punctures on my neck? Perhaps it is only my buddy Huck, eager to swing a dead cat in a graveyard to make my warts disappear. Or maybe Hester, here with my sewing."
So I sit. TheWriter. Not writing, but daydreaming about writing. I can always write tomorrow. After all...tomorrow is another day.