“I think there is a deep shame, a humiliation in being a novelist.  Deep inside us crouches a man on a ragged carpet, and the real world rides by.”  —John Fowles

I've often wondered,do artists of other stripes blush over the question,“Is my art but a substitute for real life?”Did Bach, while composing his cantatas,scold himself for not helping his wife in the kitchen?All those children to feed!Did Rubens, as he shaped the full, round bottoms of his three graceson canvas,tell himself he would do betterto be making love to one of them . . .or perhaps all three?Did Laurence Olivier, while wiping off the pancake makeup,sighand wish he’d gone fishing instead?Or is it only writerswho crouch on that ragged carpet,longing for a world not of their own design?Only writerswho take themselves off to garretsto recreate the company of strangers?Only writerswho imitate the Creator Godand feel shame?(A small sample from the memoir in verse I’m working on, All the Love in this Trembling World.  This one is more writing related than memoir.)