Oct 13, 2001 - Cambridge, MA

Somehow I am here and full of trust. Love. Whatever happens, happens. As far away as either of us go, I will be okay. Not only “okay” but complete. What we seem to be able to share is so simple and nourishing that it seems like I’d be missing the point to ask if it will last or continue into the distant future. Silly to ask such a thing. Wise to enjoy now. Because even if it does not last, it’s the sweetest love I’ve enjoyed. Whatever the duration, I’ve already known the reward.

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June 30, 2001 - Somerville, MA

Everything is teaching me. I’m no understudy; I am an apprentice of life. Teach me. Grip my heart like he has done - a man I understood and backed away from. Grip my heart like your scent does, your sunsets and lights, fires and quakes, your oceanic power.

My notebook is out; I’m all ears, Life! Slip me under your wing; let’s take a spin. I won’t make a sound; we’ll do it all empirically, Socratically, and utilizing osmosis. I want all A’s and honors.

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March 20, 2001 - San Francisco, CA

I’m afraid. Sincerely scared. Cried and cried. My eyes are swollen. Seb gave me criticism today that made me defensive. It was good advice. However writing is hard. It feels tiring. It feels truly, truthfully: impossible. I cried tonight—on the sidewalk I let it out—because I desperately, certainly, want to be very, very good at something…if not the best. What am I good at? What are my talents? I have only average brains. I am not gifted. What have I got? What have I got but a head full of bullshit fantasies that will never, never become realities. I cried because I want to be good at something I enjoy. Being great at my job isn’t good enough. Being a great friend, sister—no, none of that is good enough. Don’t I want to be a great writer? But I don’t have talent. I feel that I do—I sense that I am a writer—but no one is responding to me as if I am. No one is helping me, guiding me, clueing me in…I’m a great helper, I’m a great editor and writing tutor—today I was again told that I have a great ‘telephone voice’—but what am I going to do with a great telephone voice?! No. I don’t want to be a great HELPER. I want my own glory. I want to help ME. Then I will help others write.

So I cried and couldn’t stop. Because I can’t control my eating and I am gaining weight. I’m scared. What am I avoiding? What am I afraid of, protecting myself from? I cried because somewhere in me I sensed that writing is what I have to share…but my story, my goddman story is what I’m to tell. This I have been told. Many times, by many people. So—if I’m looking for “signs” and for encouragement—there, I have it.

But I am scared.

Because I’m going against—betraying—the code of my toddler days, my youth. I’m talking about telling my truth and I’ve only smiled, “It’s okay,” and I made everything okay for if I was all right the household remained intact.

So I am very afraid.

And I’m thinking, where the fuck do I start? Who would publish such a thing? How can I share such deep secrets? No man who reads this would want me. Etc.

But none of it matters, and I should go ahead anyway.

That’s where the signs point.

I don’t know HOW but I’m going there anyway.

“Write what you know” and all that.

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January 16, 1943 - Moorhead, Minnesota

Sat. classes. Trio practice at Corry’s. Triple trio are singing Invocations so we learned Prayer Perfect and Into Thy Loving Care. Went out with Dave, Phil & Mike—Yankee Doodle Dandy at Fargo. Ate at Grill. Cold. Dave does’t like me anymore and I cried. He was here from 12 to 1. I don’t see why I’m always hurt.

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