I’m writing this story in fits and starts, and I am in it up to my unplucked eyebrows. I’m back to reading on the subway, and I keep interrupting myself to write notes about it in the margins and on the blank pages in the front and back. It’s everywhere. Today I had lunch with S, and we talked about graduate school and loans and financial terror, and I put my hands in the air and said something like, I don’t care about being in debt; I don’t want to buy a house or have a kid, I just want to make stuff. I heard my voice tear, and for a second I thought I might cry, right there in the kosher dairy restaurant, at the table next to the people talking about the location of the rabbi at the time of someone’s aufruf.
And then later, I went and sat down and wrote some more of the story and moved some other things around and went to Trader Joe’s and got on the train, still thinking about it. I keep writing, and it keeps getting closer to the end. It always feels a certain way when it’s done, like someone left you and you can’t believe it, but also you can, because you knew this would happen, but still, it’s like, don’t you remember? We had such a good time.