Dear —

Outside my bedroom this morning, there were birds fighting on my deck like they did all last summer, and I lurched out of bed to open the door, forgetting what season it is. It was dark, freezing. I woke up, all at once, leaning there in the doorway. The birds kept fighting, locked in their bird-world. I think they were robins — they were moving too fast, making murder sounds.

Then I wrote a long-overdue email to someone, thanking her for some kind things she’d said about my writing, and sent the email feeling keenly grateful, as always, for connections like this, with writers and artists whose work I love and who I admire deeply, and miss. You are dear to me. I hope you’re well.

When I woke up suddenly in the cold air on the deck, I thought of you, and where you might be, what you might be doing. I felt like you were near, and I could see you anytime, and I felt better. These feelings — all feelings — will be blasted away in a few hours when I have to go to work, though I’ll try my best to hold onto them. Or they’ll come limping back in the dark, like they do.

If it weren’t for you, I couldn’t do this. I would just feel too alone. I would probably get a normal job, like I’ve had before, and it wouldn’t be so bad. Except that I wouldn’t write stories anymore, and I think someday I would regret it. Writing makes me pay attention, and it lets me forget myself, and naturally, it makes me think of you.

Thank you.

Wishing you the best — always.

Tasha

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9:32

I sit here, typing. Writing is just writing. It’s just sitting here. Typing. You don’t have to be good. You just have to sit. Well. Good.

I’ll admit, I’ve been up since 4:30 a.m., I’m at the end of my day, and I’ve had a beer.

But—writing is writing. It needs to be done.

The great thing about reading is you don’t have to do it, do you? You don’t have to read this, anyway. Really, I don’t have to write. I can go back to keeping it all in my head. It’s almost too easy. Except that I crawled back out of bed and turned on my computer in the dark. To write this, whatever it is.

The summer before freshman year of high school, I attended a basketball camp at which participants were instructed to make 500 shots a day and given binders to help us keep track. I came home and spent the rest of the summer filling out that binder. I didn’t even care about basketball that much. I just wanted to make those shots. I got crazy about it. I would log 500 shots, and then I’d go further. I’d run wind-sprints. I’d lift weights. I’d go for ten-mile jogs, or climb around the hills like a maniac. I didn’t get my period for months. Turns out, these are the things eating disorders are made of. Anyway, I’m not crazy—that crazy—anymore. I just make the sacrifices I think I can afford, or the ones I honestly can’t help. And I come home and sit here. And type. And I don’t really know why.

I have this one thing. I don’t need to do it. But it’s the one job that never really feels forced, even when it’s hard to do. There’s no need for binders, no obsessing over numbers—just pure obsession. A fine, wholesome obsession.

I was at my barista job all morning, running errands half the afternoon. Then I fed my brain Netflix and went to bed. I laid there. I needed sleep. I need sleep. I will sleep, soon.  

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