According to George Saunders, a work of art “has to surprise its audience, which it can do only if it has legitimately surprised its creator.”
When I read that, I realized I’m not creating art. Not by a long shot. I spend heaps of time bound up, worried, self-flagellating, fighting…
I feel better, and I know it’s because I finally broke through the weird, sticky, spiderweb-like material that seems to coat me more deeply with each day that I don’t write.
A couple of days ago, I managed to post to my Substack newsletter. It was a paltry attempt, to…
I get depressed sometimes, but like a functional alcoholic who keeps going to work until one day they’re whisked from their home in an ambulance feebly insisting it was their pain meds that pushed their liver to the brink, I do okay. I soldier on — mostly keep the house…
I nearly titled this nascent essay something along the lines of Lurching towards Bethlehem, modeled roughly after Joan Didion’s 1968 essay collection titled Slouching Towards Bethlehem, which I in this moment discovered, is modeled (in turn) on the last line of W.B. Yeats’ 1919 poem The Second Coming.
Lurching is…
The truth. The truth. The truth is…, I keep hearing in my mind. The truth is… The truth is, I’m pissed. And by pissed I mean the North American meaning of the word. I’m not drunk (though I may be slightly tipsy from the 10% alcohol sparking wine I opened…
I’m in the doghouse. That much is clear. But, my daughter opened the door a crack today. I have another chance. I can creep out with my tail between my legs and try again.
When my daughter contacted me today, I was half-sure she was calling to cancel our visit…
I just mmm’d my way through my dinner. I mean, I could not stop saying, mmm. Mmm. Mmm. With every bite, I said, “Mmm.” It felt good. It felt true. I could not help myself. The mmm just emerged, it just came, unbidden.
It added to my enjoyment. …
I am driving myself crazy.
On the one hand, I’m this person: A crazy, crazed, restless, excited romantic hell-bent on renting my house and moving to Italy. Where? Who knows? Rome, or somewhere in Abruzzo. These things are fairly arbitrary. Rome because that’s where Jhumpa Lahiri moved, learned Italian, and…
I just read in an excellent and endearing article about Laurie Anderson that her life’s work has always revolved around storytelling and “the word,” whether written, spoken, or sung. …
The cat is asking if she can get in my lap, and she most decidedly cannot.
She is getting old, and her meow is almost gone.
I just found myself meowing back at her in a mirror of her own meow-less meow. She liked that. She began purring immediately. And…
Writer, copywriter, editor, and all-round word lover. Subscribe to my newsletter at christywhite.substack.com
