FastSaying
My father once nearly came to blows with a female dinner guest about whether a particular patch of embroidery was fuchsia or magenta.
But the infinite gradations of color in a fine sunset - from salmon to canary to midnight blue - left him wordless.
Alison Bechdel
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My homosexuality remained at that point purely theoretical, an untested hypothesis. But it was a hypothesise so thorough and so convincing I saw no reason not to share it immediately.
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The writer's business is to find the shape in unruly life and to serve her story. Not, you may note, to serve her family, or to serve the truth, but to serve the story.
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In this pause, I suddenly saw something very clearly.
Whatever it was I wanted from my mother was simply not there to be had. It was not her fault.
And it was therefore not my fault that I was unable to elicit it.
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It was not a triumphal return. Home, as I had known it, was gone.
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