November was a gut punch of a month. I personally don’t know how better to describe it, unless to further the analogy and talk about follow-up kicks to the side, the groin, and then perhaps the face. I can’t be articulate about it yet. Some people can, some people were able to get their thoughts together so well, so quickly that I feel like their minds are like perfectly cut diamonds, slicing through the murk of it all. My brain is instead a half-tumbled rock.
Writing: I am chugging away. There are bright moments of hope and much longer stretches of panic, which would be shown in the montage sequence of my life as me sobbing with my arms thrown out around my typewriter (I do not own a typewriter but they film much better—in the montage sequence I would also be thinner and better dressed than usual). Apparently this is normal. I am trying to be optimistic.
Reading: I am rereading A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg. She draws you in with beautifully written tales of love and Paris and then guts you with stories about her father’s cancer and death. There are also recipes.