Becky tells me in an email that I should stop trying to figure out what's going on. "Quit trying to give yourself an explanation," she writes. But I'm not sure (for better or for worse) if I know how to not try to figure things out. That's what I do. It's how I process. In fact, I find it difficult to imagine anyone going through the world and not trying to figure it out.
And in an incredibly appropriate art-meets-life/art-is-life kind of twist, I'm trying to finish this novel, Yield, which I've been writing here and there for the last oh, what, five years? In Yield I've been exploring the idea of resistance to progress, resistance to life changes, it's the resistance that causes the stress. How like a filament in a light bulb, it's the resistance that causes the tiny thread of metal to glow. And I just thought it bizarre, and also one of the wonderful things about making art and writing novels, that I am teaching the same lesson to my narrator that I'm trying to learn in life.