Writer or not, why are we such hasty authors of our own lives? I think it’s fair to say you’re a writer as soon as you realize writing is what happens after the first draft. Maybe you’re a budding writer at that point, but at least you get it. You understand that writing is sculpting words with deliberation.
But for reasons only evolution can explain — and a bunch of scientists — the story happening in front of us at any given moment is written and published in our minds in a flash of a second. Every story thereafter builds on the preceding volume.
If our oeuvre was listed on The NYT Best Seller list — My Life In Nanoseconds — would we buy it? If not, why do we buy it now?
I set out for my walk the other day and passed a man walking his dog. I didn’t know this man — unlike many walkers around here who I’ve befriended over the years. But I did like I will do, and smiled and said, “The weather’s amazing! I can’t believe you’re in pants and I’m in a jacket!”