Word After Word

Last year, I stood with the writers on the beach, and we burned our fears and regrets and hatred in a pyre. Some loud unritualized men interrupted us, and mocked us.  Fortunately, we had enough regrets to stay focused—we had a lot to burn.

This year I cleared the week and weekend to devote myself to writing the end of Part Two. I had no party invitations, no rituals, nothing but a grumpy girl to hang out with, that would be me. I can barely stand her. I felt afraid, and scared, and full of regret. I hate the book—who would ever read it? I’m stuck in between difficulties: break-ups and breakdowns, what is right for my father, what to know. And I’m sad as heck—a friend died. A kind, brilliant, generous man, forty-five years old. He loved

I should do something solsticey, I keep thinking. I’m ignoring something important. I’m afraid of something—movement. I love the light, but in a way there’s too much. And this day is a death day: now it just gets darker, little by little, the rest of the year, falling into darkness. It’s not a celebration I’m looking for. I just want to stand somewhere other than where I am standing now: so, take a step. Any step.