With a degree in fine arts and a string of corporate jobs that paid the bills while I nursed aspirations to one day return to drawing, I never saw this coming. Becoming a writer has been the Mother Goose of all career changes. Since its inception I planned to gauge the success of my stint on the publishing world's favor. But I'm not quite ready for that crucible and I happen to have a new measure.
After turning down--not all, but most--social invitations, I know I've arrived. With no designs on intentionally cultivating a hermitic persona, I must concede that, for me, reclusiveness yields literary results. I have other logs on the fire but not nearly as many as the uberdesigner Karl who quipped in his biographical documentary Lagerfeld Confidential: "for people like me, solitude is a victory."
Because the birdsong near my writing perch won't suffice, there is still the issue of sustenance and when I do come up for air, I require lots. Like the squirrel that will eat just about any throwaway but is primarily in the foraging game for seeds and nuts, my tastes vary. And when I say I've arrived, I simply mean that I finally understand--sans regret--I can't attend every engagement I'd like to. There are apples, there are oranges but there's also Mother Goose, spinning her yarns.
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