Why would a famous author want to speak to me? The question came to me as I was about to leave a bookstore. The author who came to mind was two years older than me, and his first novel was published when he was a college student. I stood near the swinging doors, uncertain whether to walk a few more steps and out onto the sidewalk or walk to the coffee shop at the back of the store, order a coffee, take out the spiral bound notebook from a jacket pocket that I often carry with me for moments like this, and try to figure out on paper what the question might be saying to me. Thirty minutes earlier I’d been in confession mode on the psychoanalytic couch, and this phrase, confession mode, surprises me, perhaps because it’s painful for me to compare myself to this particular writer. Above, I was about to write that this author was two years younger than me, and then, when I realized the mistake, I continued writing instead of pausing to think about what the lapsus linguae might mean. Maybe I would’ve felt a little less of a complete literary failure if I believed that this famous author, born in 1964, were two years younger than me. Maybe I could’ve convinced myself that I could write and publish a future best-seller in the next two years. I knew from experience that the imagination is a place of limitless possibilities. I didn’t leave the bookstore. With the help of caffeine, I wrote a rough draft of what appears here. Many of my psychoanalytic sessions are painful. I speak about things that most of me would prefer remain unspoken. I don’t often think of my fifty-minute hours on my psychoanalyst’s couch as confessions, yet the word came to me, and I’ve learned both from writing in my spiral bound notebook and from the rest of my life that the unconscious doesn’t lie. Perhaps an answer to my question in the opening sentence will come to me. Maybe one already has.