Today's post is for Alison.
I've been thinking a lot about intention and compulsion. Last night's post was a low point, a confusion—but not out of the ordinary. I told him, Each day when I wake up, I feel like I have to recommit to doing this, to being a writer. In times of crisis, we must decide again and again who we are. Sometimes I get low on emotional energy. It gets harder and harder to follow through on the "corporate" side of writing: the submissions, the rejection files, the correspondence. For the past several months I've been trying to avoid these things and just live. I've felt like I'm wearing the costume of a regular person. It was nice, but I knew it wasn't me all along. I enjoy the community of knowing all of you. Sometimes I think knowing you is all I need: I'd rather overhear the conversation than add to it. But, too, I know that's not me. Nobody ever said of me, He knew precisely when to keep his mouth shut.