>I’m really lost.
The book is printed out and all over my floor. I was hoping that if I squinted just right, I would see the finished product and know what to do to get there.
And then of course, there’s E.L. Doctorow breaking my balls:
That’s not the part that worries me most of all. The part that worries me is: will I be able to remember misery when I am happy? Or will I engage in subterfuge against my own happiness to recreate the misery I need to connect with to write the rest of the book?
I know a lot of mothers and wives have achieved a remarkable balance between writing and living, but I am so far from it, I ache. I physically ache, thinking about a distant future in which I can write fearlessly, freely, and for hours. Do I need to sequester myself to some abby to finish this book, alone and far from the things that make me feel complete?
Or should I just buy some pot?