Historically I’ve considered writing necessary but very stressful–an albatross that I could not escape but never quite embrace. But more and more I’ve felt not so much an elation as a contentment when I’m working. Today it’s lightly raining outside, I’m armed with a very large americano, an Italian sandwich, and headphones playing “Money Jungle,” and I’m set up at the corner table at the corner cafe on my block watching my neighbors race to work. At other tables kids are playing with legos (I live opposite a school) and here I sit, playing with words. I have many worries–who does not?–but I no longer question my choice of profession. It is the biggest of reliefs.
Archive | Spirit Matters
Mary Quite Contrary
I am in an existentialist funk. I almost modified that to “a bit of an existentialist funk” but you’re either in an existentialist funk or you’re not. I am in one.
Part of this stems from an overarching, extremely icky feeling that more things are ending than beginning. In fact, that’s all of it, though that feeling has many, many subsets. One of those subsets concerns this very blog. I try not to get too meta here, and in general am a big believer that if you can’t say anything nice, keeping mum is best. But lately that’s meant that I’m always keeping mum so I’m going to write through my ennui if only as a (wan) way to wave hello. Perhaps as a plus I’ll iron something out. Continue Reading →
Sustainable Fire, Early Prose
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Blonde