I’ve been up since 4:30 this morning and been at work for the better part of the day/night since five (and there I remain) and all I want to do is funnel this VERY JAZZED WRITING ENERGY back at this story.
What I’m really saying I guess is that it’s going to be a long night, and I’m really sorry if you have to interact with me tomorrow.
That thing where you check your word count half a dozen times without actually having written or deleted anything since the last time you checked.
One hundred years ago this month, Virginia Woolf turned 31. It would be another two years before she published her first novel, The Voyage Out. And another two after that before the founding of Hogarth Press.
Just a little New Year’s reminder to self—and others—when thinking about writers who accomplished most, if not all, of their work (and life) prior to turning 30. (I’m looking at you, Sylvia Plath.)
Living out my lifelong Laverne and Shirley fantasies with a visit to Helltown Brewing. (Sidebar: my life is awesome.)
That part of writing where my desk gets cleaned, papers get organized, and my microwave no longer harbors designs of pasta sauce past. (Hi, Internet! What’s going on? How are you today?)
After three years of book research, I have checked off the final item on my to watch/read list.*
In six months, I turn thirty. I like where this is headed.
*for now (clearly)
David Rakoff, “Isn’t It Romantic?”
(One of my favorite essays of all time.)
(DR dying blows. And I feel really weird about it.)