Illusion is the first of all pleasures. — Oscar Wilde
Visualize . . .
Before you I stand, a decidedly middle-aged woman, round, doughy and blinking throughsmudged glasses. It’s six p.m. We’re in a VFW Post drinking bitter coffee from Styrofoam cups.I’m worried. It’s my turn to disclose. All eyes, expectant, are on me. I clear my throat, swallow,then say, “My name is Linda — ” I stop cold. What will you think? That I’m a fool, a loser? Iwant to run, but I’ve come this far. My confession tumbles out. “And I’m self-published.”A palling silence fills the room. I recoil waiting for the jeers, the scoffs, the room toempty out. Remarkably however, from the last row of seats, a voice calls out (maybe it’s yours),“Good evening, Linda.” Relief sweeps through me. I am among friends . . . or at least one.
Backstory . . .