It feels wasteful to write about writing. If I’m going to sit here and type, shouldn’t I type the things themselves instead of typing about the things? Yet, up there it does say that this is in part a writing blog. So I’ll bite. Or rather, you bite. I’ll tug.
I didn’t want to bother my mother—that’s what I remember most. I was choking on a lemon drop in the back seat of her Dodge Spirit, but she was driving and I didn’t want to bother her.