THE MAYBE CHRONICLES
The days were all false, warm-gray. I love this line. Too bad I didn't write it. Lorrie Moore did. It does seem that all the good lines are taken. My version, my attempted rendition, would be that the days were all drab-gray, uneventful. It's the difference between my tomato sauce from yesterday, which my husband, Rob, said needed something extra, maybe some pecorino Romano, and my gravy two weeks ago that he thought was "great, your best yet." I guess it's about depth. Nuance. Subtlety. I'm working on it. Not easy in middle age, decades submerged in mothering. Such a distance from English lit class when you could cite Edith Wharton or Aeschylus.
So I read. Fit it in. Between the gravy, the chicken, the beds made. This self-study is all catch-up, eyes focused. It's not too late. It can't be too late. I will it not to be too late. I should have studied writing in college. No time for should haves. Just read.