I just don’t write like I used to. Whoever said you don’t have to be in pain to be a good writer has never really been in pain before. Or I’ve just never really been a good writer.
The only time I’m not waiting is when I’m traveling. And I just don’t write like I used to.
I met someone who told me the bedrock of good work is the work itself, and that when all your hurt and inspiration drys up, that’s when the real good work begins. I found this note written on a napkin from that basement bar, tucked between the pages of a book I am rereading for good measure.
All the girls in Los Angeles are so pretty.
I meant what I said when I said, we all circle back. But it feels like lately everyone is trying to convince themselves that what they have is right, and good, and true. And it feels so rare to be looked at like this, by someone who sees you in the sort of way that you wonder who you are in the first place. It starts to feel like the story you’ve been telling yourself isn’t true anymore. It feels something like relief and something like love. And it’s not a bad thing. I just have to learn how to work again.