With Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life, I needed some space between takes. I picked it up by chance in the library in 2017, and I only read half of the blurb before I knew I wanted to give it a go.
There is a shift that must take place in between when we realise that we’ve got something of value to share with another, and when we have the confidence to act on it.
Who needs to hear what you’ve got to say?
When you’ve got a few minutes unaccounted for: when you’re walking to the bathroom, when you’re waiting for something or someone, when you’re heating up your lunch, what do you do?
Maybe it does get easier for some people to put on the shoes, pick up the paintbrush, start typing, start drawing, start crafting, start composing … but listening to the professionals, there’s every chance that it won’t.
I think we’ve all got a word. An identity we strive towards that we don’t think we deserve to claim.
You are not alone.
How do we qualify the depth of laughter, the full weight of a “thank you”, the catching of our breath in our throat?