I’m often asked what it’s like to be a writer — how I spend my days, how I experience the world. And so I will be sharing occasional essays from the front lines of my writing life. Enjoy!
I stand here in the stillness of a night not yet formed, scanning the blue for an early star, and I wish, as I’ve done since a child: Might I get my wish tonight.
There’s no talk now of dolls and skates and the kisses of boys. There’s no talk at all, just a hole in the soul. I’m feeling old.
Once I thought aging signified a lack of will. These days I’m less certain. When friends speak of bum knees and poor vision, I listen intently, as if we were talking of men and movies and the dreams that once wove us together.
Once I thought the world awaited my brilliant smile and searing prose. Now I see it has outgrown its patience and has gone about its business without me.
For a few sorry moments I am bluer than night, held in place by a force I cannot name. But then comes the whisper, that touch on my cheek. There, there, it says. You will get your wish.
But first you must fill the hole in your soul with new moons and the flutter of wings. You must fill it with smiles of the sacred ones in your life, and a love of all you do and do not know. You must fill it with forgiveness of yourself and life itself.
There, there, comes the whisper. You will get your wish.