The euphoria of starting the book has waned which is good because that is not where the actual work lives. I have sunk into these characters, into their lives, their world, their hopes and fears. It consumes all of my non-work/family thoughts and I have to keep a level head or else it will colonize those thoughts as well. This is actually why I have hesitated to write, not because I doubted my abilities but because I knew that I must surrender my life to it. Writing is not something I can own: it owns me. It is like drowning…


This life, this set-up, it’s all a slapdash construction-in-progress initiated by someone who refuses to acknowledge the sharks circling her little vessel, adrift in the sea. I have made a houseboat out of a busted-up canoe and have strung up tiny fairy lights along the roof, though we can’t turn them on because the motor isn’t working by which I mean to say there was never a motor in the first place. Don’t tell the kids that it has been me back at the stern, hand-paddling us along, making engine noises with my lips. I don’t want them to panic….