Letters to the Editor
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Tideswimmer
. . . yet between Sloane and I, one of us has a book deal and a career path, and one of us has a giant box full of rejection letters. And that, as a friend of mine used to say, is how the cow ate the cabbage.
Success in writing usually requires losing the cornball metaphors. Hopefully the cow didn't eat the cabbage on account of them.
I can only remember when writing was effortless. My talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time I understood it no more than the butterfly did and did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later I became conscious of my damaged wings and of their construction and learned to think, and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone.
But I have a story, so I will try. Through a glass, darkly, perhaps, but I will try.