I’m out of practice in this thing called life. While at the RWW residency, I lost track of place and time. When my sister picked me up (I was only a thirty minute drive from home), she said she hadn’t realized I was so close, that it’d felt like I was clear across the continent. I’d felt that way too. At times this was inspiring and uplifting, at times I felt too vulnerable and exposed. I’m home now, slowly shuffling around the house, placing things where I had expected them to be when I returned, taking the things from my suitcase and placing them where I think they belong. I’m settling in to write, though I’m a bit wary of where to begin. I guess I began this morning, shuffling about the house musing over the various reasons why it is I persist in writing.
Here’s the first paragraph of James Salton’s essay “Some for the Glory, Some for the Praise”:
“To write! What a marvelous thing! When he was old and forgotten, living in a rundown house in the dreary suburbs of Paris, Léautaud wrote these lines. He was unmarried, childless, alone. The world of the theater in which he had worked as a critic for years was now dark for him, but from the ruins of his life these words rose. To write!”
Why do you write?