Lydia Mansel

“What cannot be said will be wept.”

It was, actually, a bit nice.

“When I looked at you, my life made sense. Even the bad things made sense. They were necessary to make you possible.”

I started to make a literary being of myself, someone who lives as if her experiences were to be written down someday.

“Start small … on something big. Eliminate one problem. Move things one iota. Write one sentence. Send one letter. Make a spark. We can figure out what’s next after that. Your headlights illuminate just a few feet of the dark road in front of you, and yet that is enough for you to move forward and make continual progress.”

This time, it feels like the beginning of something extraordinary.

“‘And do it properly.’”

‘I’m so glad to be at home again.’