Yes, I have a pile at home. It's in my office . . . growing, multiplying, expanding. It's a pile of files (research), essays and stories and proposals (various stages of revision) and book manuscripts (fat ones, skinny ones, even books with chicken pox).
Naturally, Becky doesn't like my pile. "When are you going to clean this up?" she asks.
"Never," I tell her. "Everything is just where I can reach it."
"How do you know where to find what you're looking for?"
"Ask me for something," I answer, "and I can reach in and pull it out. I know where everything is located, right down to the last centimeter. Or, I can just sense it."
"Are you sensing what I'm feeling right now?"
Of course, I would never dream of trying to interpret a woman's feelings and thoughts. That would be miraculous. Wouldn't it?
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