Indelicacy

by Amina Cain

Now I have writing, but I also have too much of my own self. I am stalking my own soul. I wanted to write about paintings, but I wasn’t seen as someone who could say something interesting about art. I wasn’t seen as someone who could say anything at all and then publish it.

Every day I did my dreaming, but as usual I forced myself to do it practically, to imagine not that I would be a known writer whom many people read, but that I would publish one book at the end of my life. I knew that even this would make me happy. And I knew how lucky I was; I could have had to work at a glue factory.