When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
Am I high? Am I manic? Am I in love with the sound of my own voice? My fingers tapping a lullaby? Did I show up fifteen minutes late and sweating, my mask glued to my face. Did I talk too fast? Too much? Did I say I love being an agent? Am I wearing my reading glasses? Am I blind in one eye? People say they love how real I am on the this blog. Am I? Am I? Isn’t every sentence a perfect lie? A seduction? A box within a box within a box. Thirty plus years in publishing plus one golden ring. I have a lot to be grateful for and yet.
Are you real?
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Betsy Lerner 
And yet. For real.
I’m visible today, so I must be…
“Are you real?”
Virtually. But remember, I write fiction. And I am not a cat.
For the most part, yes.
Apparently not. As far as I am aware, I have no internet presence under my real name. But sometimes, when I write something good, I feel as real as I know Tetman to be. And that feels really quite something, I can assure you. Still, he really should stop lying to us — he’s the coolest cat I know for sure and for certain and meow.
You flatter me, harry. And I like it. I lap it up like it’s a saucer of cream.
Sometimes – always with those I trust. Making comments on social media is definitely (definitely) not like writing in a journal. 😉
My boobs are real. My ass is overly real. My writing is like my boobs and ass, real and overly real.
Indy gets more real every day.