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All writing is all about loss and longing, and love.  Love:  Certainly I wrote my memoir out of love.  In one sense, my book comes down to an illicit tryst under the old Japanese torii gate.  A love song to those old boys, those long-ago girls, of my life.  To Vicki who could conjure a full-antlered deer with her pencil, to Bob who smelled of fresh-baked cookies and air… A toast to the boys and girls we all had, who helped us grow up, those early loves who witnessed and forgave us our youth and our foolishness, who saw us commit our idiocies and still loved us. I want to kiss all those boys again (and the ones I didn’t kiss)—who made me feel I was part of the human race, like I belonged, like I was attractive and lovable despite all my insecurities and passions. (Perhaps lust is the salve for all wounds.)  To say thank you.

The memoir sprang from a wild tenderness for the green shoots, the honeysuckle kids we all were.  I wrote to thank the world for all those old beauties.  Those old, scrappy, frayed, dog-eared beauties.

I wrote to swirl my heart in past love, but also because a surfeit of lost love can be an encumbrance…

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