…I had written more, read more, spent more time with my kids/friends/family. Run more. Imagine you’re eighty-six, or ninety-three. (I wish for you a long life.) Let’s pretend for now: you’re lying down at home, under your favorite blanket, knowing a last breath is around the corner. Not a bucket list. Instead, you’re saying aloud: “I wish… …I had done ______________________.” …I had been ______________________.” …I had visited ____________________.” …I had NOT spent so much … [Read more...]
It’s counterintuitive that I like to write, that I’m a writer. I need social interaction to stay sane, to stay out of my head, to experience present moments in the form of dialogue with another. In the presence of other people, bouncing ideas around, dumping, whining, rejoicing, critiquing, I feel alive and normal. Don’t ask for my definition. It’s basic. Normal, for me, is the absence of neurosis. And yet, I write. Alone. While the girls are at school, I’m tapping away at the keyboard … [Read more...]