Why George Saunders Should (But Likely Won’t) Read My Work.

It's a Friday and I got the covid vaccine yesterday. Second dose. I feel like utter shit. I really do. I ache. I'm cold. My head feels like someone hit me with a sledgehammer. I was reading earlier and thought, "I should really underline that but I can't figure out what's most important in that paragraph." I read it aloud and still considered, "what do I underline?" I finally just closed the book and went to sleep, a black tuxedo cat who told me his name was David Bowie curled up on my chest. I liked to think he's concerned but I know I'm just soft and warm and my thumbs can open the can of fancy feast he likes.

My favorite book is Light in August. I can't see a copy in a book store and not buy it. Last count, I had 24 copies (many used) in my house and I try to give them to people who want to read them but Faulkner doesn't have a lot of freshmen students clamoring to read him. It's just a sad universal truth. Faulkner taught me that love of a thing is enough. I'm writing this today because I said I would. I promised myself I would. I showed up. For me, that's a big win.

Lena Grove left her home in Alabama in search of a man who didn't care he'd gotten her pregnant but she had faith that it would work out. As she says, "I'm come a fur piece" and so anytime I want to quit writing I just remember Lena and how what she wants-- to find the father of her baby-- is not what she gets. So, I struggle and I show up. Maybe George Saunders reads my work, but probably not. I'm still counting as a win because I, too, have come a fur piece. I showed up in the chair today. I wrote today. I didn't want to, but I did. That's victory enough.