I want to write like John D’Agata. I want to write like John D’Agata and Annie Dillard and David Shields and Maggie Nelson. I want to write like somebody else. Their essays are my breath, my purpose, my goal. But to get there I must write like myself until I write like them, and then I must continue to write like them until I write like the new myself, and I will actually have a voice. Until then I meander over words and philosophical perplexities about privilege and the necessity of violence, like the beast under the bed, to get us to eat our Brussel sprouts. Some day though, I might actually eat them.