Guys, I got a Twitter account, and may god have mercy on my soul. If you would like to read a lot of live-tweeting about the Brooks Falls Bears livestream, my Twitter account is a great place to do it. (And frankly, if you’re not watching the bearstream, you’re missing out on all that is good and true in the world.)
This week, the Tin House Writers Workshop is happening and the One Story workshop is happening, and I wish I was at either; I wish I was at both. (I wish I’d thought to even apply.) I’ve begun working on a new big project, and am immersing myself in it slowly, feeling it wash over my ankles, then my knees, then my wrists. I am capable of self-motivating, and I suppose that’s a more important quality than “being at a workshop right now,” but I miss being surrounded by other writers. I miss the keen and serious focus that comes with knowing you have brought yourself bodily to a place that is interested in your art.
I buy a lot of new books. I bought a book about Patty Hearst, I bought Lauren Beukes’s The Shining Girls after coveting it for weeks. Reading helps. But it doesn’t stop the yearning. Not to just go on vacation and take a break from your existence, but to make a definitive step towards a better existence. And then another. And then another.
To love the skin of your life, the boundaries. Like this. (Thanks Buttercup Festival.)
There are serious monsoons in Tucson. I can’t tell you how good that is for my mental state. A couple of other things that help: