I said to someone the other day that nothing was ever real to me until I wrote it down.
I said to another friend that all of my writing lately has felt like I have been having a conversation (or an argument) with myself, that this entire book was just a discussion of how I felt about these people (me) and their (my) issues. Which somehow makes it easier, and harder, too. Three hundred pages is a long time to be talking to yourself, but then again I could talk all day if someone would just listen to me.
Another friend just ended a relationship and she said to me that she was writing “150% more.” That’s right, I said back to her. It’s the work that gets you through.
Another friend said that he doesn’t even know how feels about things half the time until he writes it down and looks at the paper and recognizes the thoughts as his own.
Kate says the book is above everything else. The book comes first.
In yoga class this morning the instructor said that our meditation was going to help us talk to the cosmos, and I laughed at him just a tiny bit because he is such a damn hippie. He saw me laughing and he widened his smile because he’s no fool, he also knows he’s a hippie, but right now, after having written all that, I guess I have to wonder: why not try talking to the cosmos?
What I really mean is: call it whatever you like.
