To begin to describe choice is to stand along a fault line. I am that crack, a miracle of nature so unmade by man that language describes me as a disaster.

Today, I am sad. Poetry and humor aside, I am sad.

Today, I’m just going to write for a minute. No thoughts, just words, no tenderness for language, because too often it beats me into the ground, thankless.

Today, a client told me my writing was flat.

Last week, a piece I loved was rejected. Time and time and time and time and time—

Today, all I c...