The writing life

There are still days when I look up and can't believe I'm a writer. When I was a little girl, I imagined this life. But in my poor small town, that was dreaming big. I didn't listen to naysayers. I had to write. For me, it's like eating and sleeping. It's like breathing. 

And this week, I've been able to finish an essay I've been struggling to write. It is hard to write clearly about a time when you were confused or unhappy for no clear reason. But I think I managed to capture a period in my life of melancholy. And it feels good to have struggled to get it right. 

Also am deep into writing a noir story for Providence Noir. Loving plotting a murder! And I'm glad that I've managed to introduce that second story grace Paley says is necessary for a story to work. 

Then yesterday the new Tin House arrived with my essay on the writer Laurie Colwin, tomato pie, and the beauty of memories. 

Days spent with words make me feel happy.