“A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”—Thomas Mann
I spent all day yesterday going through the copy-edited pages of the new novel. My desk was covered with papers and notes and sticky notes. I laughed quite a bit. I cursed a few times. I felt hopeful. And then worried. And then hopeful again.
I thought: this is too hard.
I thought: this is what I want to do.
That’s the way it seems to go over here. It’s a seesaw of joy and despair. But the fulcrum, the center, of the seesaw is the certain knowledge that I have found the work I am supposed to do . . . these words, this story.

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