fantasizing about going back to yaddo, but for december.  isolate for the holidays.  the fantasy is being snowed into a stone room with seven writers, a fire, and a roast the size of a sofa.

Wrote this note to myself back on May 3:

Am am increasingly concerned about literary world people, the social scene, the anxiety of not producing what these people want.  I need to re-claim my writerly identity.  Being okay being the one to put her head down into the work.  It’s hard when you know some of the people getting attention, when you know their work and don’t think so much of it.  But people are different.  It’s okay.  You don’t have to understand why they like what they like.  You don’t have to be bothered by them for liking what they like.  You just have to fall back in love with what you like.

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