We are what we create rings true, and thus discounts whether it actually is.
Every time a family event looms on the horizon, I’m forced into mental gymnastics: how to enjoy myself without pushing too many buttons of self-loathing.
I’ve officially lost it just enough to give the old book a shot, and I need to announce it to the world so that I don’t fall asleep on myself (and my word-riddled dreams).
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.
“You haven’t read ALL the important books on writing, so you’re probably missing a few crucial insights that all other writers are sitting on like golden fucking eggs.” And other dumb stuff I tell myself, after the jump.
In The New Yorker’s most recent Summer Fiction Issue, they asked some awesome writers, including Joshua Ferris, Miranda July, and Rachel Kushner to write short essays on the topic “My Old Flame.” They were so wonderful, and after a long writing drought, they inspired me to hurriedly write my own.
The statement, style, and song that I’m obsessed with right now.
With some larger life changes on the horizon, and less overall safety in the new, I’ve been gravitating towards self-protection over endless personal divulgence.
The pain felt when realizing someone only talks to you when they’re sad is quite specific. It comes on slowly, until, suddenly, you’re faced with weighty questions re: what is friendship, in the vein of Seneca (but with decidedly more estrogen).