Dear Wigleaf,

I have become suspicious of my bookshelf. Standing before it used to make me feel so powerful. With the turn of a page, I could punch a ticket to Iceland or Japan or the wilds of Patagonia. I could lay in a hammock at William Duffy's farm, happily wasting my life. But lately, my books have started to mock me with visions of who I used to be, visions of who I once thought I might become. The young man who bought dozens of field guides never made it to Yellowstone to collect grizzly hair and scat. The how-to-write-a-great-novel books, while well-creased and underlined, yielded not a single publishable novel. Which is probably a good thing, because they too would likely have taunted me—all the scenes I'd have liked a second chance at writing, all the squandered promise. Maybe those ridiculous interior decorators who began turning their books around so the spines faced the wall had the right idea. Like the TVs of my childhood, such a bookshelf would turn to static and snow at the end of the night. Maybe then I could switch off the part of me insistent upon grieving my youth. Maybe then I could sleep. Then again, if any part of the kid I used to be still resides in me, I'm guessing he'd fight it. 

With all best wishes,
Steve