Sometimes I think writing and getting published are part of the same continuum, that within the very act of writing is the desire to be published, that we are always hoping to be heard. Other times I think that the two are very separate gestures. And that writing is an end unto itself and can be a deeply satisfying private act. I often talk here about the agony of writing, of being a writer. But tonight, sleepless as she is, I wonder if I’ve got it backwards. Isn’t writing the ecstasy? Publishing the agony? The promise of a lonely night, the comfort of a small island out of season? Is there anything more perfect than a composition notebook and a worn in pencil? The lost thread? The beginning, again? You are here.
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