E. B. White is one of my writing heroes. I loved his children’s books and later, as a graduate student, I discovered his essays. I was enraptured by his writing style, his farm in Maine, and his New Yorker career. I basically wanted to be him.
When I moved to New Jersey, I thought, eh, close enough. I figured if everyday life on a farm could inspire his writing, everyday life in a townhouse could inspire mine.

Not so, unfortunately. It’s been eight months since my last post and I don’t think I’ve written really anything in that time. Rather than be inspired by daily experiences, I’ve become distracted by them.

To be a writer, even a secret writer, one must write. Here’s hoping the start of Autumn will bring more writing for this New Jerseryer.