I’ve been writing for publication for more than 40 years yet have never had either the nerve or desire to get up in front of a bunch of people and read something I’ve written.
Until last night. As the newest inductee into the Floyd Writers Circle, a group of writers who live and write in the county, my initiation including standing on stage at Oddfellas Sunday night and reading two selections from the D.C. DarkSide web site.
Hopefully, I didn’t make too big a fool of myself. Hopefully, I didn’t stumble over too many words. Hopefully, my shaking hands weren’t too visible to the group.
To add an appropriate amount of irony to the evening, one of the selections was called .With Apologies to Thomas Wolfe, an essay first penned (typed?) in August, 1997, when — at age 49 — I faced one of those life-defining moments of trying to determine just where home might be. The irony comes from my conclusion, as the time, that Floyd was not — and might never be — home.
Never, the poet said, say never.
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