Most days I wake up with a lump in my throat. Usually I take it to mean I should write a word or two, and write it as truly as possible. I’m in search of modes of reading and writing which feel more alive, fused to the experience of friendship, the realities of the neighborhood, and the pursuit of a good and generous life. Mostly I end up wondering whether I have a soul, if a character in a novel would fall in love with me, or how a sentence sounds out loud as opposed to in my head. As I write this, I think the greatest thing a novel can do is soften and strengthen whatever muscle makes it possible for me to love. But tomorrow I will likely think different, and for the love of god I’m not going to come back and rewrite this.

My favorite novel is Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson (or maybe East of Eden or Anna Karenina or Mrs. Dalloway). My favorite drink is a negroni. I’m really very earnest about the kind of life I want to live, though I mostly try to appear very cool. I fear you are already thinking that I am failing at both.

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