When my great-aunt Charlotte was in her eighties, her eyesight began to fail and she had to give up driving.   From that point on, every weekend, I would stop by her house to pick up her grocery list and do her grocery shopping her for.   I remember one Saturday in particular, I stopped by and found her sitting on her top porch step trying to paint her toenails.   Apparently, she'd found that by taking her nail file and fingernail polish outside to her front porch, she could see better to do her weekly manicure and pedicure.

I noticed she was having some trouble aiming the brush at her toenails, so I offered to help.   I sat a few steps down from her, almost eye level with her feet, and started painting.   She'd chosen a peach-colored polish because it was warmer weather. Peaches and pinks were for summer. Reds were reserved for winter.

So there I was, chatting away, when suddenly there was a gust of wind.   I looked up just as the wind lifted the hem of Charlotte's dress. I froze , then immediately looked away.

In the summertime, great-aunt Charlotte wore light cotton dresses and gold open-toed slippers.

That day I inadvertently discovered she also didn't wear underwear.

After this incident, instead of going straight to the grocery store, I went to my mother's house. I walked in with my arms out in front of me, saying, "My eyes! My eyes!"

When I told my mother what I saw, she wasn't in the least bit surprised.

"Of course," she said. "Charlotte has never worn underwear."

OF COURSE?

All her life, great-aunt Charlotte was known for her elegance. For eveningwear she had silk dresses and open-toed heels. She always wore a stole in the winter, mink or silver fox. She had an embroidered cotton handkerchief for every day of the year. Her home was magical -- all that lovely crystal she collected, glistening and cool. Her rose garden. The goodies she baked -- the pennies from heaven, the warm cinnamon apples, the irregular square-shaped caramels she made on that large slab of marble in her kitchen.

But underneath it all was something I never expected. A side of great-aunt Charlotte I'd never seen before.

Ahem.

All right, so it's a side I wish I'd never seen. But once I got past the hysterical blindness, I was able to put it in perspective.

Writers present the world with finished pieces - wonderfully edited text and elegant, glossy covers. In essence, readers always see us in our eveningwear.

What you don't see is what's underneath . There's the fight we have with plot, with character. The battle to finish in time. The messes created at home, the chores ignored. The tears. Every damn day wondering if we're truly worthy to put on that finery.

So, in some ways, being a writer is a lot like my great-aunt Charlotte. To the outside world, we look like we have it all together.