My favorite shirt is torn.
The minute the dryer buzzed, I stopped what I was doing and went to retrieve my shirt, so it wouldn’t wrinkle. I pulled it out, shook it, hung it, and saw the pinprick sized hole at the edge of the pocket. Perhaps it was a spot? No, a hole going all the way through the fabric at a location that makes patching or simply wearing it again in public impossible.
What will I do?
I wear that shirt when I don’t feel up to par, when I think the weather is going to be cold, when I write and things aren’t working, or when it is one of those days. It is my comfort shirt. Oversized, blue-green and white plaid, with sleeves that stay rolled up because it has little buttons and tabs to keep them in place, it would never be mistaken as high fashion. My shirt serves only two purposes: it keeps me covered and makes me feel secure.
My writing is like my shirt. I write comfort books and short stories. Readers are meant to feel embraced by the wealth of my words. The language may not be highfaluting, but it always is understandable. Whether the tale is dark or light, it hopefully wraps the reader in a different world.
Time has changed my written works, hopefully for the better. It is an inevitable evolution, comparable to life. I’ll mourn the loss of my shirt, but I’ll buy another. It won’t be the same, but different can still be comfortable.