This is the sort of thing that tempts one violate basic principles of prose style by starting every sentence with “I.”

As follows:

I am a part-time Literature professor, part-time gardener, full-time mother.

I am a Jewish Catholic pro-life feminist peacenik environmentalist homeschooling mother who likes shooting guns and riding horses.

I never could limit myself to one thing I wanted to be when I grow up.

I am a terrible housekeeper, but a good cook.

I am presently working on one novel with a friend, another on my own.

I usually do have manure on my boots, and try to keep cognac or bourbon in my flask, because You Never Know.

(I could go on and on, but this will make me sound, not interesting, but megalomaniacal).

Anyway, I want to write, not about myself, but about old books, Italian cuisine, the stupidity of most popular ideologies, compost, homeschooling, high heels and corsets, history, Metaphysics, iris rhizomes, cheap red wine, expensive brown beer, misogyny, elves, the hottest peppers in the world, Isak Dinesen, the romance of the Old West, the anxiety of influence, the smell of horseshit in the morning, the theology of the body, diapers, the problems with the contemporary American university, folly, the annoyingness of Famous Intellectuals, strip mining, poison ivy as a metaphor, etc etc etc.


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