After two terrific concerts, one last night and one this morning, the choir stopped in Baltimore to visit the Inner Harbor and the aquarium. It was my first time back to Baltimore in 17 years, since I'd dated a woman who went to Johns Hopkins in 1987. Something about young love makes a place doubly nostalgic. I'm glad I got to make new memories with my wife Paula, so now Baltimore's not just "the Lauri city", but instead that place we saw the cool aquarium together.

It's strange now writing about this, since I didn't even bring Lauri up while we were there. There was no reason not to, no unpleasantness to avoid. I was aware of my earlier time in that city nearly the whole time, but my memories of Lauri never escaped from my own inner harbor. She just didn't come up in the conversation.

How often this happens! How private are the unspoken thoughts that drift through our day. How silent is the life we share with no one else. This is the real power of writing: to give form to the rich undercurrents in our imaginings. And by writing, we encourage others to do the same. We're saying, "Hey look, I'm writing something most people would think is dull, the most smalltalky kind of home-movie drivel, and yet ... within this unremarkable text a pearl is found."

We're not alone. We just think we are because we give too much power to other people's opinons. Well, who are you gonna listen to? Those creeps at work? Your academic colleagues? Your family?

Listen to me instead. You're good as you are. I'd rather have home movies than witty banter. Being real is more important than being liked.