I do one thing again and again.

Others write about what someone wants to know: who someone is; what something is; when, where, and why something happens; how to do something. I don't write about that.

Others write about what they believe: what's wrong with something; what's better than something else; how something could be better. I don't write about that either.

Instead, I take one small thing: something I saw; something I heard; something I read. Then I do three things.

First, I find meaning. I ask: what am I finding in this?

I'm looking at a postage stamp. During my free-range childhood, my parents gave me 10 bucks, packed me onto a train with a small overnight bag, and sent me off to Manhattan for a weekend with a family friend.

I was a letter. The train was the envelope. My ticket was the stamp.

Second, I find a situation. I ask: what's going on?

Postage stamps are butlers and maids who escort a letter through its ports and stations, dealing with border guards and customs officials. They sit at the top right of the envelope, their servant’s quarters. The letter travels first class.

Third, I make a story out of it. I ask: and then what?

It is the last love letter sent by mail. Yesterday they took away the last mailbox, because no one writes letters anymore. They just tell their phone to write a text.

The handwritten letter asks the postage stamp if she ever had a lover. The postage stamp says yes, but for postage stamps, affairs are fleeting. They always part, and go to different destinations.

The other postage stamp is on the envelope with the second to last love letter ever written. The stamps rest side by side on a kitchen table, where the letters sit, read and cherished.

Meaning.

Situation.

Story.

Two sides of a sheet of paper, in longhand.

Dictate.

Transcribe.

Edit.