Aunt Sister Mary William scared me.  She was the oldest of ten children and helped to raise my father before she entered the convent, I suspect to escape a small house filled with nine younger siblings.  She was stern and didn't suffer fools gladly, or at all.  She was interesting.  At one point she taught Afro-American Literature at Kent State.   And she was curious.  In her sixties she became fascinated with parapsychology and automatic writing.  Maybe she sensed it was the Holy Ghost speaking in tongues, I don't know.  Anyway, the automatic writing -  I thought of that when considering my response to Marcela's open call about how we write.  Because sometimes when I write, that's how it is.  I'm holding hands with the Holy Ghost or something.  (I know it's not my muse, because I send her engraved invitations and she never rsvps.)

Occasionally there's a question and I have an answer.  Marcela's open call, for example.  This sort of writing isn't as easy as the automatic kind, but it's easier than writing about questions that don't have answers.   It's more like pulling a rabbit out of a hat.  There are tricks.  Look over there!  Ta-da!

That's not the answer you wanted?  Hey, Presto!  Here, have a bouquet of paper flowers and a string of knotted silk handkerchiefs. Believe me, they'll come in handy.