Another Saturday. Sometimes it feels as if all the other days are just pages being flipped though — not that the weekend is really any different. My every day is full of coffee drinking, dog-walking, attempting to write.
I’ve been working on a new novel that refuses to be moved ahead by more than a sentence or two per day. The real-life distractions of the world are not only attention-grabbing but so depressing as to make one want to give up on living, let alone writing. Still, I try, waiting for my story to catch, to take me somewhere that feels meaningful. And when I can’t write, I read. Most recently: Luster by Raven Leilani, Catherine Lacey’s The Answers, a novel called The Margot Affair by Sanae Lemoine. Also The Liar’s Club by Mary Carr, which for some reason I’ve never gotten around to.
I’m home again after spending another two weeks at my mother’s house (where this photo was taken). While I was there, I recorded some piano ideas on my phone, sent them to Paul, and he put guitars on them. Other than that, I cooked for my mother, walked back and forth through her neighborhood, tried to maintain my sanity. I’m happy to be back in my own place. I feel a certain comfort in my solitude even as I wish, sometimes, for a partner who would make sense. I’m sure, after so many years of failed attempts, that this is a fantasy and, so, refuse to give it more than a passing thought. There are more important things to wish for such as democracy, a vaccine for Covid, or to wake up in another time (perhaps the past since the future is hard to imagine without feeling afraid).