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"I am a writer!"
my friend David Juda exclaimed
as we settled into a luxurious dinner at Picante's, just a few blocks
from where I live. I was wondering how come this was the first time
I had ordered red snapper. Maybe it hadn't been on the menu before.
Everything was panning out so easily, the conversation we were having,
his epiphany, "I am a writer!" and our mutual enjoyment in the beginning,
middle and end, and from where it all flows. "I see it all now in
the specific!" he said, popping something I missed into his mouth
with his left hand. Is he left-handed? Is he right-handed? It's
theater, and I loved it. I didn't realize until later one of my
favorite tests for whether I like someone: If I like eating with
them. It's all so easy. "And one of Edgar Allan Poe's editors told
him, 'Always write close to Death!
The public loves it!" David knows things. I know things. "I am a
person," I heard myself saying. Just to myself.
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