In 1976, Joan Didion wrote, famously: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking.” It’s an assertion I planned on borrowing until I realized it does not apply to me. The fact is that I write not to find out what I’m thinking but simply to confirm that I am thinking. As to why this is, I’ve begun to doubt that whatever’s happening inside my mind still qualifies as “thought.”
An honest inventory of my consciousness would yield the following: to-do lists, Dua Lipa lyrics, meal planning, traffic strategizing, superficial observations about nature () immediately succeeded by existential dread (). Does any of this rise to the level of will get a second wind at the box office. I worry about slowdowns on the 101. I worry about my daughter’s stomachaches, the cause of which remains unknown.
