The Wednesday essays

The clear morning is not coming. Not this week, and probably not next week either. The empty calendar, the moment when everything else is handled and there is finally room — these arrive very occasionally, and building a creative practice around their arrival is a plan for not building very much.

There is a particular kind of distortion that happens when you work alone for long enough. It is not loneliness, exactly. It is the way your own ideas begin to sound different when they have only ever bounced off the inside of your own skull and the doubt that fills the silence where another voice might have been.