I sat with the note in my lap, stunned and glad to be alone in the kitchen. The laundry gave me something to do with my hands while I settled my mind.
So what if sobriety made him coherent. His mind was a refuse bin for advertising concepts. Blasphemy, plain and simple. Although she wanted to talk about it, she wouldn’t for fear a confrontation would send him back to the gin with a virulence.
I wanted to write the book that I’d been looking for my entire life and never found.
Once, I was your other heartbeat, your deepest
center. You were the world I was and knew.
After—all your life—I thought I was unlike
you: the you I liked, and otherwise.
My novel has shifted to become its own creature—it’s no longer something that belongs only to me; now that it’s out there it’s finding a shape of its own.
I am such a private person that as I was writing, if I had allowed myself to think about other people reading my work, I would have had to stop. But now, I just have to put that anxiety aside. And trust that baring my soul on the page is no different from doing so on stage.
“We all know what it feels like to feel like something less than what we’re supposed to be.”