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.