I have ink on my middle finger. My fountain pen has a refillable cartridge. It’s the kind you dip into a well and pull up the plunger to suck black blood into the instrument. I haven’t filled it much lately, so maybe it’s lack of practice that leaves the stain on my writer’s bump. Or maybe it’s intentional, a subconscious dribble on the f*ck-you digit that screams Look at me. I’m a real writer.
Yeah right. So real that I have to leave out the letter, U. Because at my advanced age, I still feel my mother over my shoulder, tsk-ing about inappropriate language.
Where do I go from here? If I’m a real writer, what do I write? Am I bound to be censored by the memory of long-lost authority figures? Or do I toss out the good girl platitudes and write like a man?
It’s a seismic shift.