Life is chock full of conversations and events which, whether circumstantially or by design, are certain to intersect eventually. A few days ago, Only Son spent at least twenty minutes coaxing me into allowing him to get another tattoo. (Yes, “another,” as in “he already has one and now he wants another.”) The conversation only ended when I hung up on him. So this morning the argument was reprised, but his request was amended to a petition to have his current tattoo (an homage to his dear friend Brandon who committed suicide last summer) re-inked, as it was already starting to fade. I could only muster up the energy to look at him and sigh, which he now comprehends to mean “I don’t feel like discussing this at the moment,” and we left it at that. For the time being.
What are the chances that I would turn to today’s edition of The Washington Post, only to find this most excellent essay on the topic of….tattoos! It was just one more in a long series of “Why didn’t I write this first?” moments.
As always, I look to published authors for comfort:
“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”