some stuff i've written about writing
you should have been here by now. for six months i have been staring out this window at the naked trees, watching the snow fall and melt and waiting to share spring with you i was going to buy $100…
What does it mean for folks like us (who choose to write certain words about our lives on internet screens for anyone to read) that the thing withheld is often the real story?
On the surface, things feel mundane. There’s work, a lot of work, and work is good and I’m grateful for that. There’s reading the news every day and watching that godawful election burn down in slow motion and I feel distant from that but it seems like the only public conversation left these days.