Dear Writer,

I thought I could keep it together. I imagine you still do, surrounded by logs that keep your walls up; each log a marker for your concentration, there to instruct the liminality of your days. I see you living each day fresh for old and new drafts alike.

I remember your doubt. I remember mine. I remember us saying, if and when doubt takes over, to let it simply be. To let it wash over us, overtake us. And then, when we are flat out on our backs, with nothing left to give or analyze, to breathe in and to start again.

I imagine you sit by your logs at night, pen in hand, books open, thoughtful, relaxed. You love your panic. It flows over you like a temper, and you destroy anything, from an ant to your best of the best, with equal force. I wish it were easier for me to...

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