Writing of any kind is always biased toward the kind of mood that produces it. Kind of a tautology. So my 1st ‘sincere’ post here, had a brief thought triggered by weather and a reflective mood. That’s my immediate temptation here as well. It’s the first of September but I want Summer to stay but I’m confronted with Autumn. My thoughts turn to so many Fall-ridden books. It almost makes me cry. Is it because sincerity is so intimately linked with tinctures of sadness? I wonder if the obvious fact that it is easier to critique than to contribute is related to this.

 

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