The Lessons of History, Now Tumbleable
In contemplating this year’s AWP conference (The Animus of Writing Peeps or something), I spent a few maudlin hours staring at my closet and fondling various black sweaters. I needed some clothes that would imply that I had the ability to read and write, but also that I was capable of basic social interaction. You know, an outfit that suggests, hey, I’ve never been published in The Paris Review, but only because I’ve never submitted.
You’re probably thinking, Deirdre, writers don’t dress alike. Self-presentation has nothing to do with the profession. But think harder: What do writers have in common? We are always cold due to our sensitive natures.
Are we always cold because of our embittered, under-published hearts? Or are we always cold because we wear our feelings like a fleshy outer layer, subjected to the harsh realities of employment and human interaction?
- Me: There are so many books I own that I want to read
- Me: There are so many books that I don't own that I want to read
- Me: -cries a little-
You shook off my anxiety like a great winter coat in early spring. You took my hand-wringing, my sweaty palms, my rapid heartbeat, my nauseous stomach, my cracked voice. All physical manifestations of the same dumb fear of love. And you took it. You held out your hands and they were so sure, so strong, so stable; they steadied mine when they couldn’t stop shaking.
— (via typewriterdaily)