I’m such a sucker. Each month nearly half of my paycheck goes to paying back college loans, and I resent those bills the most: dreaming of the kind of life I would assuredly be leading without that debt holding me down. Would I be traversing Thailand with nothing but a tattered backpack and a charmingly freckled face? Would I be learning new languages, how to ballroom dance, the preparation of delicious time-consuming recipes? Would I have more time to write? I’m sure those loans are the reason that I don’t write more often.
And yet whenever a wide-eyed Bard freshman, making minimum wage (plus free pizza), calls me and asks for a donation to my esteemed alma mater, whatever I can afford, I reply “. . . can I write you a check?”