Yesterday, a client sent me a note that nearly made me cry. She said that if I ever questioned why I do this work, I shouldn’t. She went on to say how much I helped her, especially in organizing her thoughts for a future book. Others have said it. One writer amused me once by saying with surprise, “You’re good at this.” But yesterday, those words really lifted me because I do, from time to time (and by that I mean always) struggle with my desire to write and my work. I’ve always been more devoted to my work because I need to be connected to the earth the way a Thanksgiving Day balloon is tethered by so many cables. First as an editor, and now as an agent, my work with writers has saved me. Work has saved me. The rest of life I don’t know what to say much of except of course my daughter, my half scratched diaries, the shoeboxes filled with letters, clippings, ticket stubs and brightly colored candy wrappers. A game of Uno with drunken friends, sex in a Tanglewood parking lot, a long slow cruise down the Nile reading Faulkner.
What saves you. Or what kills you?
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