current conditions
The sun out as I write this, but April overall a smear of clouds and rain. I turned another year older towards month’s end, contemplating this beautiful interview with Jennifer Lynch about her father and his art. She said, “He made lamps. He made furniture. He made sculptures. He made drawings. He made paintings. He made music. He made films. If he was curious about it, or had an idea about it, he did it. He was not fearless, but he was so curious that the fear didn’t matter.”
Grateful for the reminder, the invitation to reposition fear as part of or companion to the creative process, less an indication something along the way has gone terribly wrong. I want to be more mindful of this when I work, and to not get tangled up in what I think it should look like or how I want it to feel. Those are not the ideas I come to a page to negotiate with.
There was a lot of David Lynch in my April, actually. That email I wrote a friend invoking his guiding principle. The reminder of this quote, “Intuition is the key to everything, in painting, filmmaking, business—everything. If you can sharpen your intuition . . . then a knowingness occurs,” as I wondered how I’d go about sharing last year’s news—
Last year, when I thought I should reclaim the rights to as much of my backlist as I could, and then did—my first five books made mine again.1 The abiding rule is authors tend to want their work read and here I was, quietly wiping most of my books off the board without guarantee of future place upon it. Having discovered gaps in what currently remains of their availability, readers have reached out to me. Why? they ask. Because I took it from you. But why, if you didn’t have to?
Seems cold of me, to frame it that way. Punitive almost, like a rejection of your investment in my past. I want to tell you it’s nothing like that, could never be. But I did have to do it. My reasons were necessary, an extension of what has defined so much of this chapter of my art. Taking risks with no promise of reward, except for what it settles inside me. Wasn’t fearless. Was curious. A knowingness occurred: these books, their stories, so beloved by readers (and their readers by me) needed to inhabit a space where anything could happen. This pursuit of possibility in honor and out of respect for you and them both. But I will speak more on this, and where it has taken me, another time.
For now, would you believe I didn’t start this month’s letter thinking there would be this much, if any, David Lynch in it? And it comes to you so down to the wire I can see the next from here. I’ve been immersed in my manuscript, had hoped to reach 100 pages before my birthday, and then, when that came and passed, by April’s end. Ultimately, I will have achieved closeness and fallen short of the goal.
But there’s something about this book—the way I’m defining and refining its expression and my proximity to the story as its teller. Considering every detail that forms its whole. It’s reached that point where every sentence bears a particular weight and maybe it’s for that reason I’m not as put out as I usually get about word or page counts yet unmet. Lately only feeling the consequence of this slow but undeniable push forward, of making choices that matter.
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Cracked Up to Be, Some Girls Are, Fall for Anything, All the Rage and This is Not a Test.
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Always always excited to hear about more books by you. Happy birthday!