978-1338540697

Not usually a number person, but for me the above number is cause for celebration. For me it captures long mornings spent staring outside, studying the clumsy, bushy-tailed squirrel hunkered at the bird feeder. Season after season, day after day, I'd watch him peacefully coexist with the fledglings who breakfasted on the crunch of seeds scattered below the feeder. 

In spring and summer, the birds left to look elsewhere for seeds and berries, but still my squirrel scampered from arbor to feeder, scrounging through leftover nibbles, frolicking with other tinier bushy-tails.  It comforts me to see my squirrel there, as it always comforts me to have my aging but incorrigible dog curled in a nearby corner. 

Just a number, but it reminds me of long afternoons stretched into evenings— the gathering of books and papers strewn across the kitchen table. 

Just a number evoking night after night spent among shadow voices.

I've never liked numbers— their finite meaning, their absolute, abstract authority. Their puzzling relationships that I could never quite figure out quickly enough. Words were always so much better, so much more comprehensible.

But maybe writing is it's own equation. I've blocked out much of what I learned (or didn't learn) as I struggled though math class year after year, but I do remember these rules: always break it down to the smallest common denominator. Break it down. Break it down. Break it down. Remember to show your work. 

Every story I've read, explored or written has been the process of breaking down, of finding the smallest common denominator, the tiniest truth. 

978-1338540697.  A translation. An invitation. An effort to show my work and an opportunity to recall the sweet company I keep when I write.