I used to write.
\nI suppose that\u2019s not really much of a surprise, but it seemed an important point when I opened my eyes on a place I\u2019d never seen that was theoretically three miles from my parent\u2019s house.
\nWhen I\u2019d decided to drive back to my mom and find out what was really going on, I\u2019d had to give absence notice to my current employer, for whom I wrote technical manuals. It wasn\u2019t exciting; it was, in fact, soul-sucking drudgery that made me stare longingly at help-wanted signs in Blockbuster, but the pay was good and I didn\u2019t have to think.
\nWriting, real<\/i> writing, involved a lot of thinking — dredging up memories and pains and joys and regrets and putting them onto a page for everyone to see and hopefully not recognize. The old rule is write what you know<\/i> but really, what else is there?
\nI’d stopped because I didn\u2019t want to remember what I knew anymore. I hadn\u2019t wanted to for ten years. I\u2019d been alone for all that time. Who wanted to think about that?
\nBefore that, though…
\nBefore that, I used to write and had written about the place I saw in front of me right at that moment. It was a homecoming to a place I\u2019d never been. It had a completely familiar feel to it, and that scared the hell out of me.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I used to write. I suppose that\u2019s not really much of a surprise, but it seemed an important point when I opened my eyes on a place I\u2019d never seen that was theoretically three miles from my parent\u2019s house. When I\u2019d decided to drive back to my mom and find out what was really going … <\/p>\n