Failing to reach enlightenment during morning meditation, McCormick must contend with the seven hours before J&J come home.
Two undergraduate memories contribute (invade?): Asking his advisor how carefully William Trevor’s intricate plots were planned, and staring at a therapist’s beard one winter-break morning after crashing his Wagoneer into the big pine in Shelly Holland’s icy front yard the night before.
“I think he just sits down and writes,” said Vern.”
“Stop imagining yourself the hero of your life’s drama,” said Dr. Blackmann.
McCormick is sure both men meant well. But the problems of art, living, and Shelly Holland’s lips remain.
McCormick 100 
I remember a therapist saying to me once about my life, “write it down and sell it as fiction.”
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