I kid because otherwise I’d have to sit with my pleasant feelings and just enjoy them and we all know how bad I am at that.
There’s no guide for this shit, you know? And I have friends, now, whose friends appear in the New York Times, who see the names in that paper and know those people and have their whole lives.
But my whole life, the New York Times was… I mean, if a small-town Midwestern girl ended up in the Times, either something very, very shitty had happened to her or she’d become famous. It just wasn’t otherwise a possibility.
I had dinner Saturday with some people who wanted to talk about being a writer and I realized that all the advice I had was insufficient, because you also have to be really, really lucky.
I am, in many ways, really, really lucky.
And I’m proud, too, that I’ve been working hard and trying to do good work and people have noticed.
I still had to clean the litter boxes last night, though.
Like with all formulations of “when x, then I’ll be happy,” the truth is that there’s no “x” that can do that.
You just have to figure out how to be happy independent of all the x-es.