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For that matter, it's ironic that I write at all, because I suffer from creation phobia. It's partly the makings of a practical mind: I don't believe in anything until it exists, so every time I write something, I proclaim it a blue-moon miracle. When off duty, I edit stories for a teen-run website; have art and tea parties with my fanciful female friends; protest corporate greed and consumer ignorance; run bike dance; read read read; and generally try to loosen up and let life in. A reward awaits anyone who can tell me where to find my life's lost calling. If you are a male living in San Francisco, a date may be granted in lieu of
cash prize. Contact aprilthompson@hotmail.com to collect it.
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t's ironic that I survive off freelance writing, because I belong anywhere but in front of a screen. I put sprigs of juniper and piles of rocks around my desk to pretend I'm not there. Never works.
It's also ironic for me to be writing about relationships, because I keep men at such a distance they look like ants.
