This weekend, I bought a frog. I don’t know that anyone really needs a frog and it definitely isn’t a great embellishment on my financially-dependent state, but here she is: Marianne Williamson. I told my parents I named her that because she seems pretty cool most of the time but has these bursts of wild energy but the truth is, I just like the idea of a frog running for president.
The man at the pet store told me that there is at least a substantial chance Ms. Williamson could be carrying some nasty salmonella-causing bacteria, but I promised to be careful.
I’ve never been great at caring for living things, myself included and emphasized here, but I decided there might be a benefit to working against this historical pattern. If I ignore the rotting corpses of what once were a succulent and potted plant on my dresser, it’s easy to convince myself I can be a good mother to this possibly-diseased-democratic-nominee.
If I tilt my head sideways and press my nose up against the glass of her tank, it looks like a whole alien world to me. To her, it probably looks like she’s about to get eaten.
Something I’ve discovered over and over, it can take me a couple tries to learn a lesson, is that writing about yourself can often be less revealing than dreaming up some odd fictional world. The people around you already know quite a bit about you and your life, but they have no idea what you want to create.