#rumpus

Does anybody know what happens if a teacup clown can hatch a bird egg? My little Rumpus has been stealing fertilized eggs from outside and I have concerns as I do not have any plans to be responsible for a baby bird, and I suspect Rumpus may not know what to do with one either. I feel like such a terrible clown keeper, I don’t know how she’s getting out.

When I was done writing it, I understood that things happened just as they were meant to. That I couldn’t have written my book before I did. I simply wasn’t capable of doing so, either as a writer or a person. To get to the point I had to get to write my first book, I had to do everything I did in my twenties. I had to write a lot of sentences that never turned into anything and stories that never miraculously formed a novel. I had to read voraciously and compose exhaustive entries in my journals. I had to waste time and grieve my mother and come to terms with my childhood and have stupid and sweet and scandalous sexual relationships and grow up. In short, I had to gain the self-knowledge that Flannery O’Connor mentions in that quote I wrote on my chalkboard. And once I got there I had to make a hard stop at self-knowledge’s first product: humility.