But deep down I just want to be a writer, even if no one reads a single thing I produce, I love to play in the sandbox of words. I think authors need as much diversity and courage as actors but thank god we don’t need flawless skin and tiny butts. Of course that begs the question if I were a real author who would I be? There are so many to masters emulate. I love Maya Angelo and her caged bird, or Cheryl Strayed but without going so far off trail, and Elizabeth Gilbert who eats, prays, and loves. Then of course we have Jane Austen who regaled the landed gentry, JK Rowling who gave birth to a modern day deity, and look how Stephanie Meyer eroticized fangs. I can’t leave out Nora Ephron who shares my birthday and heartburn. We have the ‘beloved’ Toni Morrison, Emily Bronte made me hunger for Heathcliff, and at last the indomitable Virginia Wolfe who gave me a room of my own. 

I like to write in my pajamas (old boxers and faded tank), leaning against the backboard of my bed, sipping cold coffee, conjuring up an endearing protagonist who charmingly overcomes the horrors of food shopping. Art imitating life?  I say live on the edge it makes for a good story. I love the idea of leaving my mark on the world, something tangible, fruitful, and enduring like Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount but then again I tend to avoid perfection. I’m a teacher by day and that might be as close as I get to changing the world. Given the right wardrobe and supporting cast we could all be legendary but for now I’ll settle for me and a notable tweet.