Another mean text from my little brother this morning:
Hello, update your blog. I know you have material you're just sitting on.
Oh, Jonny...I seriously can't wait for you to come visit next week. I'm going to put you to work writing for Tollipop on an hourly basis!
I don't really feel like writing about the bustle of the season, dear reader. It's been busier than usual lately, but to debrief myself here only feels like prolonging the chaos. I'd rather be peaceful in quiet moments. I'd rather talk about something wondrous, like Higgins and his shimmering wings which unfold before my eyes and flutter like a fine, whirring mechanism.
I'd rather tell you most nights, very late, I sit in front of this computer in a state of bleary fatigue and stare at the revision of my story, tinkering with phrases and feeling secret passages open when I discover ways to say things more clearly.
For me, this is writing at its most sublime: when it is so simple, clear, and visceral that you would trust yourself to be held in its hands, going to whatever world it takes you and wishing, in a way, you could stay there forever.