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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You’ll start to note the difference between your longer- and shorter-form ideas—but if you’re not sure, there are some questions you can ask.
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I see two people who are entwined, but never completely, and not at the expense of their separate selves.
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As a black man in the field of social work, my dad was, as a white female coworker of his once put it, “like a fly in buttermilk.”