The other night I dreamed of Grace--at her little nursery school, Tot Spot; me just watching her play and paint, feeling both confused and grateful--and that began the blues, the sense of sadness that bubbles always beneath the surface. I know that many of you who read this understand this melancholy. And I write about it to remind you that you aren't alone. Or crazy. You are just human.
As I tend to do, when these feelings grip me I force myself to be grateful too. Not just for my other two remarkable, marvelous kiddos, but for my writing life, which is rich and full.
Last week my wonderful publisher, WW Norton, threw a media lunch for me and The Book That Matters Most (along with two other summer novels by Liz Moore and Lydia Millet). There were hydrangeas and wine and editors and writers who write about books. Truly a dream day.
I have so many exciting things coming up too: a trip to Venice, teaching at the Geneva Writers Conference, teaching in Cuba and Aspen and Ireland and Paris.
Even now, as I write this, I am on a bus to Logan Airport, heading west toward palm trees and white sand beaches and Mai tais.
Here's what's accompanying me on my very long flight:
Those size 50 needles are for Purl Soho's Eleventh Hour scarf, knit with yummy Gentle Giant yarn.
I'm rereading A Long Long Way because I'm writing something about WW I. (Sort of...it's the very beginning of what in 2 or 3 or 5 years will be a novel).
I see the airport ahead. Often we are advised to stay home with our sadness. Me, I take to the skies. http://www.more.com/relationships/attitudes/runaway