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Writing Pieces


By November 2, 2017December 5th, 20225 Comments

We were best friends..

I remember going to Nancy Cook’s house for sleepovers.  We were best friends.

I think, in large part, because of those sleepovers.

We’d eat kugel under the covers.  Make promises to keep forever.  We even broke her bedframe during a “Rock Around the Clock” dance marathon.

Sleepovers are still good.

Maybe the only way to build real friendships.

Hanging out first thing in the morning in your old blue sweatshirt and pj’s.  drinking coffee.  Talking about almost everything in the world.  No makeup. No pretenses.

You can’t do that meeting friends once a month for dinner.

And you can’t do that at cocktail parties.

Or dinner soirees with place cards and onyx napkin rings.  

It just doesn’t work.

You need to sleep over.  

You need to break eggs together.  Fry bacon.  Butter toast.

And sit.

Tell the stuff that never gets out.  How you ended up in Ohio.  That you’re addicted to necco wafers.  That you can write with your feet.  

Otherwise, friendships remain superficial.  Acquaintances.  Played out along the tabletops of the trendiest restaurants in town.

I’m only interested in real friendships now.  The ones that go deep.  But to find that you have to reveal yourself.  Show the underbelly.  Admit the yucky.  Share the pain that has never righted itself.

This can’t be done in a few hours every few weeks.   


Invite a friend to spend the night.  The weekend.  Rent a bungalow. Go to the beach.

Jump in bed with them in the morning for a chat.  Walk together to your prettiest place.

Make snickerdoodles.  Watch a horror movie.

And talk.  And talk.  And talk.

Dig below the surface.  Chip away until you find your friend.  And yourself.

Sort of like Michelangelo discovering David inside the rock.  “Every block of stone has a sculpture inside and it is the job of the sculptor to discover it.”

Take the time to be a sculptor.

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