Confession: I haven’t been posting things here because I want them first to be perfect, because I have not yet explored a particular idea as thoroughly as I would have liked. I want each thing made visible to be the complete thought, the round and consummate representation. After last night—after the last two years really—I understand that there is no such thing. There are no borders. There are no definite shapes. There are things that grow and bleed and shrink and shift. A common rule of writing workshops is this: Don’t qualify. Just read the words; let them be there. I’m going to stop that now: the qualifications, the reconsiderations, the feeling of it not being quite right, quite finished, quite complete. Stop that now and just throw it out (throw it out there), she tells herself. This is all just a beginning, is it not? This is all both the beginning and the middle of things.

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