Blank

In the sea of words, authors produce there are convenient blanks; lacunae. Some of us leave them in the open; others paper them over so carefully that our readers never notice the one topic we never go near. Then, if you become famous like a Steinbeck, Roth, or an Angelou, a snotty biographer, snoops and pries into your habits to get past the runarounds you cleverly constructed.
OK. Full confession now for my future biographer. I am a lurker. I love to sit back and allow the story to unfold around me. It’s a remainder of the early training as an anthropologist that I’m more interested in the behavior of others. See how well I’ve papered over that blank spot?
OK. Here’s the full reveal. I’m not too fond of winter. I rarely write about chills, spills in the snow, and going to fetch wood for the stove.
You say that’ too easy? Go ahead read all my stories. Count up how many take place in the winter, or mention snow.

After you finish, could you get back to me? It will be a pleasure to talk to someone so devoted to my writing that they read everything.