The Deep End
She said she didn’t want to write about writing, and you agreed. But you did it anyway. I could ask why, but I know. And you got your answer, didn’t you, like you always do. What then is there? If you were to refrain from ranting about every loose screw then what would be left? What is worth looking at or going into?
You told me before that you can’t convince anyone. You’ve also said that people are stupid and stubborn animals, whose minds cannot be changed. So when does it end? When do you stop? And what keeps you climbing back up here?
Stories. And stories of stories. And the storied lines of storied lives, filed and organized, printed, displayed, or both—and set aside. There are millions of them—billions probably—and more to come. Inside these halls you find no recourse but to tell them, to walk them, and to retell them—sometimes exactly, other times not—and then to set about releasing them. But stories are not wild animals, not like we are. Stories are a fire that burns on fuel. Where’s the fuel? Is it out there? No. And you know that.
So then you are as you have led yourself to be, and I don’t blame you. Couldn’t if I wanted. There isn’t a wrong way and you dove in, like you do. So swim deeper. Go deeper in the deep end. Deep as you can go.