I have arrived at my writing residency and all is well. When I was here before, I had a separate room and writing studio, which is the case for most fellows. This time I’m in a small apartment so I’ll work and sleep in the same place. It’s quite spacious and I have a mini-fridge. Score!
Listen, I don’t know what I’m doing. I just want to say that up front. I know what I’m doing, as in I know how to write. But I’m having a tricky time figuring out my psychology right now. I did not thrive under quarantine, as I mentioned before. Creatively it was a really tough challenge.
Now I’m here and feeling good. I have space and they have half the number of fellows as usual to keep everyone safe. I’m glad to be here but I miss my dog. And I’m suddenly afraid I won’t be able to work, that the writing won’t come, that I’ll find no focus or direction or motivation. Why do I always feel like I’m trying to prove something to myself?
I’ve met some folks and everyone is pretty great. You know what I love, as a writer? Visual art! and music! I love hanging out with artists in other fields and checking out their stuff. It inspires me.
I wish I could live in an artists’ commune with my dog and just hang out with my tribe on the regular. Because my normal life is not doing it for me lately. I need to think about that.
P.S. I took that photo of the towel-based life form while on a cruise. Seems like a lifetime ago. It was three years ago, and I see the pictures of myself from that time, and I look so young! Does anyone else feel like the pandemic has aged them exponentially? Do I really look older or is that in my head?