In high school and college I was organized. I studied and did well on tests pretty much always. But some nights, when I had a big exam the next day, life got in the way and I didn’t open my notes. My books stayed in my bag. On those rare occasions, one of two things would happen: either I would panic and stay up all night in a mad adrenaline frenzy, cramming, drinking coffee, feeling sick; or I felt a weird calm settle over me and I didn’t worry about it. Almost inevitably, after those calm nights, I’d wake up to a blizzard, or a sick teacher, or an extension.
That’s how I feel right now about my manuscript. That’s how I feel right now about my life. Nothing is going the way I’d like, but I feel completely calm. Almost apathetic. Blank. Empty. Inside my yellow sweater there’s a girl who looks like me, but I’m not sure what she’s thinking. I’m not sure how all her feelings leaked out. Her work is piling up, and her laundry, and the number of pages she should have written. Her inbox is full, her house is dirty. But she just sits here drinking tea. Waiting.