Driving through Beverly Hills yesterday, a large metal sculpture on the median strip caught my eye. From several blocks away, it looked to be a perfect red circle mounted against a white backdrop.
Imagine. It’s July 4, 1776. You live in Philadelphia. You’re twenty-five. You hang with Betsy Ross, who is 24, Alex Hamilton, 21 and Tom Jefferson, 33. It’s an exciting time, it’s a wild ride. You have a vision for a new form of government. Like Abe would later say—of the people, by the people and for the people.
I arrived in Washington, D.C., a bit battered and broken. The daily news twisting itself around my heart, making it hard to breathe.
I want to be really, really cranky. I want to throw a hissy fit. hurl sticks and stones, swear like a sailor, but I am not going to go there. I’m going to adult my way through this lunacy…
The book proposal is done!!! I printed out all sixty-one pages just so I could fawn over it. Pick it up, cradle it in my hands, wistfully thumb through the pages and think about how many times I reworked a particular sentence.