Several months ago, I wrote a story for a publication we’ll call The Paper.
I didn’t pitch The Paper. They contacted me, saying they needed someone to report on a story and that one of their staffers had recommended me as someone who knew a lot about the topic. I was pretty flattered, so I said yes. I did a lot of work - conducting and transcribing interviews, attending an event, etc - and submitted the story ahead of my deadline. The editor told me she loved it. It was published. The Paper featured my story prominently. I submitted an invoice and other relevant paperwork. The end.
Eliot’s headaches, like Proust’s neurasthenia, seem an integral part of her creative identity, as if her extraordinarily intelligent brain could not work without overloading. Still, one wonders how different her life might have been if she’d had aspirin.
Our streets are calendars containing who we were and who we will be next. We see ourselves in this city every day when we walk down the sidewalk and catch our reflections in store windows, seek ourselves in this city each time we reminisce about what was there 5, 10, 40 years ago, because all our old places are proof that we were here. One day the city we built will be gone, and when it goes, we go. When the buildings fall, we topple, too.
Now that I’m in a committed relationship, people think that the reason I didn’t “change my mind when I met the right guy” meant that I was using my childfree status as some kind of cover for fertility-related issues. Thanks for the knowing nods, concerned shoulder touches, and those links to support groups, but I’m fine. Save your support for someone who genuinely needs it.