In my most recent dream, I gazed into my mother’s magical magnifying mirror, the mirror she drags on every road trip. (The mirror that weighs fifteen pounds.) I discovered my eyebrows were unruly, in desperate need of plucking. A few wild stray hairs grew here and there, undetected by blurred fifty-year-old vision. Undetected without help from the hulking amplifier.
As I studied these shapeless brows, I noticed each hair was not a hair at all. Each hair was a word. A teeny-weeny minuscule group of letters. Why had I never noticed?
“So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads.”
― Dr. Seuss