I’m travelling in England, a place I’ve never before been – I’ve kept mostly, in the past, to places that are cheap and warm, and more obviously, more decidedly different from my home – and people keep telling me it’s surprising that this is my first time here.
I’ve always –at least, since I started writing essays, about seven years ago – believed that the essay form has a lot in common with poetry, despite the ostensible differences between them.
Every time I finish writing a book a very specific dread descends upon me. Every time I finish writing a book I feel emptied out.
People keep asking me, what are you working on now?
People keep asking me, what’s next for you?
And I still don’t have a proper answer.