Indelicacy

by Amina Cain

I will die if I can’t write and then I will have wasted my life.

In books I found even more strongly my desire to write, to write back to them and their jagged, perfect words. I found life that ran close to my own.

The relief of reading and of being alone. The relief of trying to write.

I thought if I spent time in the country every day I would be able to write. Walk in the morning, write in the afternoon, walk again in the evening, then write again. Late at night, read. Then write again. Sleep.

We all carry our lives in us, not just our problems or nightmares, but something of what we were before.