I was driving home from work on Friday and just as I was crossing the bridge, I realized that I have only ever written fiction to save me. And now that I feel saved, I don’t know how to do it.
It gave me chills, that realization.
And I’m still not sure what to make of it.
I was thinking that one of the things I really admire about my friend, S., is that she has a way of strolling into a room and giving people the impression that they were expecting her, that of course she belongs there. Even her writing frustrations are borne from her knowledge that she’s doing good work and belongs in that community.
I have mostly lived places where reading and writing made you an outsider. And I guess, deep down, I still feel that way in some ways.
I don’t know where I’m going with this. I thought maybe writing it out would give me some profound insight into it, but I guess not.
How to live in the world mostly happy? What kind of work to do with this happiness?
I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.