While I whittle away my molecules waiting to hear “Yeah” or “Nay” from grad school, I’ve been reading.
Ok, reading more.
Like, grotesquely more.
The girth of my literary atoms has exploded. (Currently, Donal Ryan and Alan Lightman are being hungrily devoured.)
The question is what do I do with this newly found fat?
Could the answer be: Write?
When is the answer not “Write” with me?
Bottom line: Chubby or not, my molecules run in very tight circles.