I am back. My book is almost done. Life is good. Finally. Scraps from my absence include the following:
My father is still important to me. I need to get over that.
Our tiny room in Paris was just big enough for the bitterness.
Why do I not care more about money?
She cannot raise her eyebrows even when the moment calls for it.
Almost every list says, “hair, face, teeth.” As if these items are not in my orbit.
They will thank me later. Or not.
I caught my first fish. He forgot to take a picture but that fish knows what’s up.
Anyone can say they are a writer. Only they know if they are or they can or they do. Maybe.
Even when it’s not a competition, it’s totally a competition. I know that.
I know it is hereditary but I cannot accept the dying part.
Never tell this part. Never talk about this part. Delete this part.
I hate her for saying people who write memoir only have one or two stories. Abuse or they hate their families. She has a family but that is not the point.
When I visit the shark attack website, it makes me smile.