If you write and have the cheek to bring those word-assembling activities up while around polite company, someone, somewhere, sometime is going to say that thing we all eventually hear.
“I don’t know how you come up with all those stories.”
If you’re like me, you’ll lie.
You’ll lie because we’ve all been taught to. Maya Angelou, the most exalted grandmother-lady in American fiction told lies to you about her cats and rats and mats and how she types them for weeks, waiting as patiently as only Maya Angelou could for the real words to return so she could get on with the business of telling her stories. You’ll repeat Anne Lamott’s lies about shitty first drafts and you’ll tell those well-meaning members of the polite public the lie Margaret Atwood told you about fearing perfection. After all Stephen King says we have to finish, no matter what, that meeting…
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