All in Journals
Six months ago, I was starting, waving familiarity goodbye from the window of the plane I almost didn’t catch on my way to San Diego, where the next morning I would begin my attempt at hiking the Pacific Crest Trail in its entirety.
“Sawah, how many are you?” Morgan asked me from the back seat.
I glanced in the rearview mirror to initiate the eye contact necessary when trying to communicate with a four-year-old, but Cooper interrupted before I could open my mouth.
“I know how many you are, Sawah!” he shouted from the way back. “Thuwteen.”
I used to find absurd the idea that I would write at night, after work.
“I’m a writer,” I’d tell people, and they’d at some point in the conversation mention their assumption that I must write at night.