The White Album pounced on me and was truly unlike anything I’d read before—a seamless weaving of current events with memoir, facts with potential fictions, a soft-edged journalism that thrilled me.
I’ve been treating New York like an ex-lover that I’m ashamed to still be sleeping with: continuing to use and abuse it, while complaining about it profusely to anyone who will listen. In the last 48 hours, though, I’ve had what you might call a come to Jesus moment (the Jesus in question being one who shops at Atelier and drinks eight cups of black coffee a day).
I think it is common for teens to want to push their damages under the rug, hoping that they’ll disappear. As I’ve grown older I’ve learnt that the most interesting, well-rounded people tend to pull them out, stare them boldly in the face, and, eventually, move on.
“You have said that writing is a hostile act; I have always wanted to ask you why.” Dabbling in Queen Didion, as per usual.