“Step into my parlor,” said the Spider…

Welcome! (and I mean that in an innocuous way.) I don’t know if I’m a writer – I know how to write with a degree of skill, but that’s not really the same thing as being a writer. I keep saying I’m not, but I don’t think the words are getting the memo. They keep coming, and impressing themselves on me. Impressive words, if only because of their sheer relentlessness. But since it looks like they’re going to keep arranging themselves in my head, I might as well write them down. And having written them, I have to wonder if they are words only for me, or if anyone else can get any use out of them. It’s a tricky proposition – there’s something dangerous about inviting words (and I mean “inviting” as both an adjective and a verb) – maybe they’ll take you somewhere neat; maybe they won’t. Maybe they actually have something to say; maybe it’s just sound and fury. Blue pill, red pill, what to do… (Also, I didn’t make up that title – that’s a paraphrase of Mary Howitt’s beloved poem “The Spider and the Fly,” as fabulous an invitation as was ever extended.)

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