Bangalore is wet and cold and overcast. I’m consuming chai by the barrelful to keep myself warm. The cats are on their best behavior, in the hopes that I’ll let them snuggle up to me when I ensconce myself in approximately eighty thousand blankets at bedtime. My favorite time of the year is here!
As I make my way through Flannery O’Connor’s collected short fiction—one story each morning, taken with a cup of hot filter coffee—I find myself turning each grotesque, sardonic tale over in my mind for hours after I’ve finished reading it. I’ve always struggled to understand the appeal of short stories, but O’Connor’s work is helping me learn to appreciate the form.
Cloud Atlas is as good as I remember. Will I outgrow it in the same way I've outgrown so many of my other favorites? Come back in ten years to find out.
It has become clear to me that my writing skills have atrophied after years of disuse. Sentences that would spontaneously take shape in my mind now require hours of labor to produce. My working vocabulary has shrunk. Putting my thoughts in order feels like grabbing Jell-O with chopsticks. Just writing these weeknotes takes me half a day sometimes. I’m frustrated, but there’s nothing I can do besides writing every day until my writing muscles regain their strength.
In an unexpected turn of events, I’ve discovered that I enjoy eating fruit. Who knew?