I think that I’ve been going about this the wrong way.  I proposed this book as a fresh start: a new endeavor, a new perspective, a new addition.  But I think I envisioned an ending. I saw it as a kind of severance, like lopping off bluish bread or necrotic bulk, and at the end of it I’d have a thickly planted bed of words in train and under control.  I thought I would get to exchange my life for my biography. 

And then I’d get to start over. 

I don’t think I wanted – or pictured – the messy debriding of ten years.  I skipped to the end, the part where, work all done, wisdom all rendered and locked down, I would close the book on my horrible mistake and step forward into a newer, cleaner version of myself.  My book would serve as a trap for its own theme, and I could be dispossessed. 

Of course, I’ve found it impossible to make a start on all this – and that’s because I see that beginning as starting from scrawling fin under the last page and walking away.  I so badly want to walk away. 


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