On Writing and Religion; or, Indefinite Directions to the End of Language

Papa says that if I am going to be a writer, I need to find my voice. I tell papa, I have, it’s called Chekhovian. Papa says he does not appreciate blasphemy. It is you who is being blasphemous, I whisper. Papa looks up. Did you say something? he asks. Papa, I say, isn’t Jesus happy when the Christians try to imitate him? Papa says, Chekhov is not Jesus. Papa is correct. He is always correct.

Writing is like playing piano: You sit with your back straight and press down on keys. When some people hear about what you do, they say, I would like to take that up. Others say, That’s great, but they don’t really care.

I have no time to do anything, is always a lie. I have no time to do anything else, is sometimes true.

Writing is different from playing piano: It is common to take private piano lessons from a young age; unfortunately, the same is not true for writing. It is easier to get your poetry published for money than it is to get your waltz published for money, even at a reduced rate.

Indefinite directions to the end of language: Why?

Praying is like writing: you must be good to be heard, they say. Praying is different from writing: editing your prayers is useless because He sees and remembers every draft.

I say, Only in dreams can an absent man be the star of the show. Mama looks to the sky. Then she crosses herself.