The wool suit is me. The wool suit is not me. The wool suit is why I am here. I am a writer. When I shut it out, when life and work and responsibilities get in the way and I’m not creating…the wool suit slips on. I’m exposed underneath but covered head to toe and it itches. And it can chafe. It can be an underlying but insistent pain. I’m uncomfortable in my own skin when I’m not writing. So here I am. And there’s no wool in sight.