Three weeks until my coursework at Columbia is finished.  There has not been one day that I took it for granted and walked without knowing the immense weight, gift, and privilege it is to study the craft of writing.

I’ve been processing offline in my friendships – having friends over for dinner, long talks with a handful of confidants, and jotting down fleeting thoughts about grief & the end of things.

I take great comfort in the words of so many talented professors I had who expressed uncertainty if they knew what constitutes great writing.  It’s art.  It’s subjective.  It’s varied and complex.  But the one thing that writing demands is an authoritative voice.  A knowing presence stringing one word to the next.  I’m still experimenting with my voices.  Because I don’t have just one, I learned.  I have many.

My writing is hovering near the surface because I’m emotionally overwhelmed these days.  The end of things.

I have a hard time letting go, even when I know when I’m ready to move on.