I Came All This Way to Meet You: Writing Myself Home

The ultimate privilege, for me. A house I have for myself and can open up for others. A room for them to stay in. The fight was never for a room of my own. I always had that in my head, no matter what. I was always going to write. It was the fight for a room for someone else. To open up my home—and myself—to others.

Now I knew I had the power to remove other things in my life that I’d held on to for too long for all the wrong reasons.

Having any success as an author is like getting a promotion, only they don’t hire anyone to replace you at your own job. I had to be a good writer and I had to be a good salesperson.

just wanted to be in a better place than I was when I wasn’t writing.

What is that thrill, when you give the right book to the right person? What psychological button does it press? I can only tell you I felt giddy at that moment. Someone was going to be happy for all the right reasons.

To experience joy through the joy of others. He sees that as a gift for him. My sweet friend.

I love the idea of solitude being a gift. I think we can be afraid of being lonely, but if you figure out a way to own it and see it as a treasure and a pleasure and a joy, then it can be quite comforting. I have a place to go in my head that’s just my place, and no one ever gets to that place. I value that alone time so much. I wouldn’t be able to

I loved. I had lovers. I was loved by others. I knew it, that feeling. But I didn’t have true partners. I had collaborators. I had people I made shit with. I had people to talk to. I had people in my life who understood me as much as I could be understood. A few mentors. More substantial than romantic love, I had friendship. That I knew best of all

We knew soon enough our view would change. I began to be wistful and then reminded myself: We’ve had a good ride.

I had been the one to impose all the hard work on myself; I was also the only one who could impose the time sitting still.