Window Over The Sink

I was thinking this morning--today is Sunday, six days before you're reading this--that I am being silenced. Well, not me, actually, but my writing voice. I remember the early days of essays, when I wrote for the Peru Tribune , it wasn't always easy, but I could usually spill out a column in an hour. I didn't have--although I should have had--a proofreader, and I think sometimes Jeff Ward didn't edit what I sent in--and should have; he may have trusted me too much. Some of it

This week, as I was heading south down State Road 25 toward Logansport, going 58 miles an hour and listening to E. Jean Carroll's Not My...