The Thing You Think You're Making

I'm sitting in the Center For Fiction Membership Lounge in Brooklyn, NY, growing irritable at two people near me eating loudly. I have no leg to stand on with my irritation - members may eat in any space they want in this lounge, and humans fundamentally make noise when they chew. But I have come here to figure out what the hell to write or draw next, what is burning to get out of me that I have the nerve to believe someone else may be served by reading, and instead all I can focus on is mild misophonia. But with the aid of Earl Gray tea and white noise blaring through my headphones, I am persevering to find something interesting to say or draw.

I have arrived at an exciting point with this directive I have given myself, to produce writing and/or artwork every week: a total loss of ideas. I say exciting because not knowing what is next but trying to trust that something will arise if I just keep going, feels reflective of this moment in my life more broadly.

Twenty-five-ish years ago I was a senior in high school applying to colleges. I was absolutely sure I wanted to be an actor professionally, but something in me was also absolutely sure I didn't want to audition for conservatory programs. I wanted an academic degree. With hindsight I can recognize that the theater world and I have been saying subtle No’s to each other ever since, but I refused to believe for many years that I was complicit in that exchange, sure that they were mono-directional and I was saying nothing but Yes.