sigh. sigh again.
Reading Jhumpa Lahiri's essay in the New Yorker on her becoming a writer almost made me cry (only almost, but still...) I hate and envy how she can talk about her journey and her writing with such clarity, humanity, and so so beautifully. Oh yes, I'm just a real spiteful mean-spirited thing (Lee, you are so right, but I've been so good. I don't talk/moan about it to you anymore now do I? At least, I make a concerted effort not to, every time the thought bubbles up--that black evil bubble). But I do envy that. When will I ever be able to write nearly as well? Will I ever?
There