A Writer Has To True To Him

A Bicultural Upbringing Is A Rich But Imperfect Thing

And Yet He Had Loved Her. A Bookish Girl Heedless Of Her Beauty, Unconscious Of Her Effect. She'd Been Prepared To Live Her Life Alone But From The Moment He'd Known Her He'd Needed Her.

And Wasn't It Terrible, How Much He Looked Forward To Those Moments, So Much So That Sometimes Even A Ride By Himself On The Subway Was The Best Part Of The Day? Wasn't It Terrible That After All The Work One Put Into Finding A Person To Spend One's Life With, After Making A Family With That Person, Even In Spite Of Missing That Person...that Solitude Was What One Relished The Most, The Only Thing That, Even In Fleeting, Diminished Doses, Kept One Sane?

My Parents Had An Arranged Marriage, As Did So Many Other People When I Was Growing Up. My Father Came And Had A Life In The United States One Way And My Mother Had A Different One, And I Was Very Aware Of Those Things. I Continue To Wonder About It, And I Will Continue To Write About It.

A Writer Has To True To Him Or Herself. Period. That’s It!