wrote a dedication for my imaginary novel that felt so sad and beautiful I knew I could never post it so I buried in in my diary in pencil.

this morning, for the second half of my writing time, I am wallowing in the luxury of installing edits from hard copy into the scrivener doc, with music on, the deep pleasure of already having made decisions.

taking note of my long-term annoyance with people who talk about having to make themselves write, how easy it is for them to avoid or procrastinate. I have never ever felt that. I feel it all the time about everything else in my life, but with writing I feel lonely for the page when I can’t access it, and I feel like I am waiting for something to come so I can pounce and I feel all kinds of frustration and insufficiency, but I never feel procrastinate-y or avoid-y and I cannot wrap my head around why anyone who felt that way about their art would do it, like it’s exercise or something– I know a lot of people think exactly about art as they think about exercise, and I guess a lot of professional athletes think exactly about athletics as those artists think about exercise, too. I don’t get any of them, though. I quit acting and I quit horses for just these reasons, no regrets.

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