I have been reading “Autobiography of a Face” by Lucy Grealy for the last few days. I found it in a used bookstore on Sunday along with the collected works of H.D which I had been looking for, for years. I scared the crap out of the person down the stacks when I saw her collected (made physical noises) and strapped it to my breast like a small child then like a BAD mother brought it to my house and lost it in my own stacks.

Read Grealy’s book if you have not already. She was a poet and then wrote a memoir before it was cool to do such things. She had cancer as a child which left her face disfigured and there’s no happy ending. No Oprah saying it made her better or stronger, nothing more than a brilliant book.

After I finished the book Em came in and said, “did you know she is dead?” Which really sucked b/c I didn’t KNOW and I wrote my own happy ending even if Grealy could not. I didn’t give her a drug overdose at 39. I gave her hair and better surgeries and maybe a few more lovers.

I don’t think I’m a poet. I might be a fairy tale writer.

Now I’m sad and want to go have tea.