The other day, a drunk man at a bar asked me why I do what I do.
“What? Drink Honig Sauvignon Blanc?” I asked, my personal bartender Windsor rolling her eyes in dismay.
“No, wretch. Write,” he replied. Yes, I know him a little.
I’ve never really stopped to think about why I write. But now that I have a moment, and encouragement from someone on his fifth Pinot, I’ll try.
I grew up without money. We had no phone and no car. It was a little more difficult, therefore, to encounter other people.