I’m moving slowly through Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. It’s not one I want to rush through – don’t think I could if I tried. The book is the chronicling of the loss of her husband and child – Two separate events timed unfathomably close together. Terrible premise, no? But it’s written beautifully – deliberate and slow. She takes time with the details. Doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to get anywhere. It’s almost like the reader is not present in her mind as she gives the words to the page. Now that ability, for me, is the most difficult task in writting. To write without consequence, without self-consciousness, without shame or guilt or fear. To write like no one is listening. I have many miles to go in the realm of courageous writing. Press on.
I wanted to see what Joan looked like when she was young. I loved these photos.