I have to gulp because I’m late. But the poetry is wonderful, like a dog lapping at your face. Like my heart is too big for my body and I’m holding it in with both hands. I sip white into red, darker than blood, a deeper black than the sky outside. It’s 9pm and everyone is drunk and swerving around on a carpeted floor in this hotel. They keep our glasses filled with new tastes.
I’ve never wanted to be anything other than a writer – not really, not even back when I wanted to be a scientist (I wanted to save people) or a cartoonist (I wanted to make them laugh). Writing is just breaking the dam and sopping up the mess. I’m not afraid to do it. Writing is the person I love, the person I’d give everything for or to.
I don’t know the answer to this question, still: What drives you?
Her pregnancy has shifted my priorities around. I’m considering moving back there – to Brooklyn though, not Manhattan, to the subway system I hate and the pizza I love. You will understand someday, what it means - to venture back into a world you hate for someone you love. I want to be a good aunt, like you’ll want to be a good father.
Some things just happen. You have everything you need to be happy. Just use it.