On every paper I have ever written, I’ve picked apart each paragraph and judged it like a pie-eating contest. Which is the most filling? Which will make me sick? I eat, and I eat, and I eat, I’m a pig amongst pies of words and empty windowsills. There’s a vacant space there, on that lonely windowsill. One placed a pie, which I’ve since devoured and deleted. I could bake my soul into my words and the fruit would still taste tart. Your great-grandmother’s secret recipes aren’t so secret; the words are baked into the pie. Scarf it down. You’ll digest it eventually.