I’ve been trying to organize myself lately: to do lists, calendars, RSS feeds in folders, email properly labeled. All of it is unnecessary, I realize. There’s really not that much I need to organize, just things I need to do. It has always been the doing that gives me trouble.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want, where I want to go with this life I’m living. I always viewed moving to France as a new beginning, a chance to be different, better. I’m happier, but no different. Happier, but no better. I’m not sure that there is a better to be.

I told my mom once that I dreamed of being a writer. She said, “Don’t dream … just do.” Just do. And I think I’m doing. I’m doing, but not enough. Not enough to fill the jar of hopes and dreams I hold inside me. Not enough to feel satisfied, to feel proud.

I worked on TBSOL last night. I thought, This isn’t good enough… Karine said, “You started out brilliantly .. you can’t always be brilliant.” I said, “Perhaps I should scrap it all again, start over.” She said, “Are you crazy?” I thought, perhaps. Perhaps I’m just trying too hard.

I read her a passage from Donna Tartt’s The Little Friend. I said, “It’s so beautiful. Why can’t I write like that?” She said, “Then you wouldn’t be you.”

I want to move on from TBSOL. I want to finish it, let it be. Write something else, something different, if not better.

Sitting on the train a few days ago, I watched the trees outside, my mind reciting the kind of narrative that only sounds good in my head. Karine asked, “What are you thinking?” “Just watching the trees,” I said. Just watching the trees go by. I kept thinking, there is a story here. There is a story in all of this, if only I could see it.

Yesterday, I thought of Julianne and her past. I watched the details of her life unfold before me. I almost missed my subway stop. Last night I wrote part of it. When Karine read it, she cried. She actually cried. It was odd to watch someone cry at something I’d written. I’d never made anyone cry - that I know of. I asked her if she liked it. She said, “It’s so sad.” I said, “But is it well written?” She said, “It’s too sad for me to pay attention to the writing.” I turned back to it, to the words on the screen. I didn’t know what to make of that.

I think I’ll just keep going.

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