So my loyal readers of Moments of Being may have noticed that I have begun a new blog in which I continue Devotion. I thought about combining the two blogs, but decided instead to maintain each one separately. Writing, of course, is a practice, its own act of devotion. But because Moments of Being is very much about the craft of writing and the psychological and emotional life of being a writer, and because I so love writing it, I didn’t want to mix the two. It strikes me, particularly today, that we writers need constant reminders that we live by our own peculiar rhythms and that we are, in many ways, outsiders, our noses pressed to the glass. For the past couple of days I’ve been at a literary event in Florida, and have met a bunch of writers I hadn’t known before–fascinating, warm, wonderful people, I recognize them all as having that quality peculiar to writers, which is to say, we spend most of our time alone in room, except when we’re suddenly in front of audiences, trying to articulate what it is that we do. We’re introverts and performers. Outsiders and teachers. Requiring solitude but longing for company.
I keep copies of old Paris Review Interviews near my desk for the same reason that I so enjoyed the company of these new writer friends over this long weekend in Florida. We’re all in our tiny solitary rafts doing our work, living our lives–but it’s good to remember that we’re all in the same boat.