Thursday, January 26, 2012


Confession: When I moved to New York, I thought, I really thought in 18 months, I would be married, mortgaged in Scarsdale, munchkins en route, walking a dog I barely liked, curdling yougurt, mastering the fine art of rolling a round roti.

Confession: I have wanted to be a writer for a very, very long time. I have been a lover of reading and books for even longer. When I was seven years old, long after lights out, Mom would check on me. I was notorious for reading under the covers with a flashlight, so she routinely had to confiscate my things and make me go to sleep. I was an avid reader, who always had a pencil in my hand and a notebook in the other, drawing pictures and writing sentences.

Confession: I don’t want writing and a man to cross over. For some reason, very strongly, I wanted to be an accomplished writer before I got married. I don’t know I wanted this. I just did. Sometimes I felt that a man would not take my writing seriously and see it as a hobby and then relegate me into some subservient role. I don’t know what I thought this. I just did. So I thought if I had established myself and had a “name” in a “business” before marriage it would be better.

Truth: Maybe I should have thought any man who did not value my dreams or passions, was not the right man for me.

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