Today is my deadline. And since I am writing this in the past, I sincerely hope I've made it. And since this past version of me has been wearing the same pair of pajamas for...I can't remember how many days, has been pretty much existing on coffee and hard boiled eggs, and has scared all the members of my family into thinking I have indeed fallen into my brain and won't be able to find my way out, I will keep this brief.

And not really about September memories, but memories in general.

Because as a writer, I've found that memories, the good ones anyway, the ones I've told at dinner tables and to my children, are what have made me a story-teller, such as it is. In a large Italian family, all they did, at every gathering and holiday, was tell memory-stories. Embellished, most likely, but fun and meaningful. I learned, from a great many storytellers, how to pick the juiciest and plumpest memories, the ones with a beginning, middle, and most important, punch-line of an ending. We ate them up with the pasta and laughed so hard I choked. On several occasions. Those stories brought me out of my shell and made me feel like I belonged and took root in some deep place inside me.

People ask where my stories come from. I suppose the simple answer is the place where they were planted.


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