![]() ![]() I’m betting on myself in a way that seems outrageous. ![]() I’m terrified of taking on more debt but stopping now means I’ll have to get a “real” job to pay off the MA I’ve just finished, and if I do that I doubt I’ll finish my novel. I’ve started a novel, and been admitted to a PhD program where I hope I’ll have time to finish it. I am 29 years old, in the summer between a masters and Phd program. ![]() The trip is going very badly, and I can’t quite articulate why, even to myself. I take my chair, my notebook, my Adrienne Rich volumes and head out to the beach, free for two or three hours to read and write. Because I can’t imagine spending fifteen dollars to tour Hearst Castle, my roadtrip companion has gone off to do it herself, in a huff. I’ve fled the campground for the beach, trudging through the sandy tunnel under the highway with a notebook and a copy of An Atlas of the Difficult World. It is June 1993 and I’m halfway through a roadtrip that will kill a friendship. ![]()
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