Here's one thing you learn how to do when you live in New York: wear black. It's like you're only PERMITTED to wear black, especially in the fall and winter months.
Anyway. I totally took to it the year we lived there and for years and decades after I kept wearing it. Why? Because it's easy. And dramatic. And people confuse me with Angelina Jolie. Yes! They do!
But as of late I've given up on it. I want color. Especially if it's purple or orange.
So I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to make this about writing. Can I turn my shift into some larger metaphor about how sometimes you write one thing for a long, long time . . . only to realize (eventually) your tastes have changed? And that you ought to take the risk and follow where your new writing interests take you?
The answer is "no." This is just a post to say that I'm sick of wearing black. And also that I feel like eating everything in sight.