From “Where Do I Write? All Over The Damn Place” (Elisa Albert)

“Anyway, that spring wore on and every Friday there seemed to be some better thing I needed to be doing. Like writing. In my little office, or leaning against the doorjamb by the bath, or at the Starbucks out by the malls and cemeteries, or on the train. Because the novel was closer and closer to done. And I had this obvious realization: the sooner I stop spending Fridays at the Co-op, the sooner I will finish my novel. And writing! What a relief. Because writing is not about making friends.”

(Read the whole essay here in Guernica)

 

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