I have a good friend who is more of a hippie than I am—more believing in afterlife and auras and juicing

Me, not writing

and in taking long, deep breaths. And while I guzzle coffee with milk and she sips lemon water, she talks a lot about a book called The Artist’s Way. I know it well. I have bought it for many friends over the years—poets mostly, people who look at the world through open and evaluating eyes, people with things to say. But I just glug, glug my coffee and listen as her voice g...