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.