You might imagine that given my age (76) and with the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, I’ve been thinking lately about clearing out some of the detritus here in the ol’ homestead.
Not that I’ve done much about it but it has come up in conversation recently with a couple of friends.
One of them, in New York City, tells me he tried arguing logic: “It’s not like anyone is going to write my biography,” he said to himself and to me.
Too true, but I’ve had just that conversation with myself about my old love letters. In one case, a long, long time ago, the man I was dating spent a year in Europe as publicist on a TV miniseries while it was shooting in several countries there.