A New Dream

art of writing, mental health & illness

Because I am having so much trouble writing something new, I find myself reading more than usual, and with rapidity. Recently I read The Museum of Innocence (Pamuk). Then They Came Like Swallows (Maxwell). Now I’m reading A Sport and a Pastime (Salter) — sex scenes and descriptions of France. The new Sheila Heti comes out tomorrow. My female-writer book club is reading it next, and then Cruddy (Barry), which I still haven’t read — I know, I’m awful.

I have hopes that if I inhale enough books, and if I let them ferment inside me, I’ll have something to write. I have ideas for something having to do with farm animals and a Russian-American firefighter and China declaring war on Taiwan, but these are just notes in my Filofax right now. I have, what, 300 words of it so far. I’ve been taking pictures again with my Polaroid, using expired Polaroid film, because I don’t have a dry age kit and all of the old Impossible Project pictures I took crystallized and changed color — very frustrating, but I’ll have to bite the bullet and start using the dry age kits eventually, I know…

Chris is off for the summer (he works at a school), and he’s been impossibly patient with me these days in a way that bewilders me and fills me with gratitude.

I am chewing on the insides of my cheeks in my sleep again, and have agitated mornings…

But what beautiful brambles in the jar on our coffee table. What bright evenings. Cashmere cardigans in June.


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