The Writer Is In
“Storytellers came to me looking for connection—which was, of course, the very thing I’d been craving myself.”
Last fall, I was adrift. My debut novel had come out a few months before, and I was enduring a period of novelistic postpartum depression I had been warned about, yet somehow never believed in or prepared for. My day-to-day life had reverted, more or less, to its pre-book state, and I sometimes woke up wondering if that beautiful moment of feeling work and intention crystallize into accomplishment had ever really happened.
Can I get an Instagram of this?How many people would like it?
Someone likes me!Where would I work?
What if I don’t have time to finish revising my own projects? What if I can’t get my schedule to work?What if I’m bad at it? What if no one likes me? What if no one comes?
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“I was worried that no one would see me; that they would only see a Wife”: On a John Singer Sargent Painting and Marrying Young
I see two people who are entwined, but never completely, and not at the expense of their separate selves.
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After I left, everything became clearer, in the way that a breakup can clarify a toxic relationship; put things in sharp relief.
We think of explorers in terms of what they discovered—the Eureka moment, not the search. The search is imperfect and frustrating and owes you nothing.