Dear Joe. And I mean that: Dear Joe. (I have a friend who also watches your YouTube videos and who calls you our Joe.)

When I was born, I told the doctor it was important he put me on my mother’s chest. We can’t do that, he said. We can’t let her see you. She might get attached.

Today was day 3 of Art of Accomplishment’s Connection Course.

(Note: this essay is even more all over the place than is typical for me. I was trying to say too much with too few words, but at least I tried.)

I love being a writing coach in part because my whole body loves it.

It’s my birthday. My birth day. My emotions are all over the place.

What if I took my toes as my own. My feet. My hands. What if all of me is me?

What did I benefit from being such a harsh critic about my mother?

The other day I went to Mac’s Provincetown Market, and I bought a bag of steamers and four Wellfleet oysters.

I like to get jacked up in the morning before I write. If I have to sit on my butt and stare at a screen, at least I can get shot out of a canon first. An iced Americano, my new dose of Wellbutrin, and a walk in the windy cold by the ocean is doing the trick these days.

I have been in Provincetown for almost six weeks now and instead of the head of the book I came here to write crowning, it seems to be in full embryo mode, and I feel roughly three months pregnant.

I had such a nice time thing morning being a dust mote. I thought I would share what I imagined with you so you could be a dust mote, too, if that feels like a good idea.