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.