Back in Florence

(Not literally.)

Once more, I’m a creature of strict rhythm:

1. I rise, and I DON’T LOOK AT MY PHONE. (I’m yelling because it’s difficult.)

2. I shower, usually. If I don’t, it’s because I’m trying to coax myself into a lunchtime Peloton class.

3. I dress in some wool knitwear situation.

4. I drift toward the kitchen and make coffee. Now, I take this part very seriously. I’m an apostate Catholic; coffee-making is my daily ritual, my new pater noster. The kettle is set to 205º (yes, still reluctant to bid farewell to Fahrenheit). The beans are measured to 32 grams. (Grams, when I’m sticking to Fahrenheit? A contradiction, I know. I’m full of them. We all are.) Then it’s 556ml of water into the Chemex, et violà.

5. I eat toast, thickly smeared with creamy, not crunchy, peanut butter. (American Skippy, schlepped in luggage by visiting family.)

6. I take my morning walk, coffee in hand. I keep a notebook in my back pocket in case the ideas start percolating. I sometimes mutter to myself and passers-by glance worriedly at me.

7. I return to home, walk up the 65 steps to my flat, slip into my office.

8. I write.

You thought I was done with my book? Oh no, no, no. I’m back in it, building new scenes and setting fire to lazy sentences. I’m punching moments up. I’m removing the redundant. Or, I’m making everything worse. I really won’t know until I read it all through again.

Left: how I imagine my office view. Right: my actual view.

Why have I returned to the book? Because this whole “writing a book” thing became a whole lot more serious last month. Because, after a summer of cold emails and impatient waiting, I—at long last, by the grace of god, in a stroke of good luck—signed with a lit agent. Someone kind and thoughtful, someone whose enthusiasm about my book is both exhilarating and terrifying.

The whole experience has flung open a door to that strange neighbor who always arrives without notice and overstays their welcome: imposter syndrome. Let me tell you, reader, I went through it all: I wondered if any of it was real; I questioned whether I deserved a good, really good, agent; I looked with dread at my own bookshelf. It makes no sense, I know! This was finally a moment of triumph! But imposter syndrome is a strange, pervasive phenomenon. On top of that, writing a book is the most solitary experience I’ve ever gone through. To finally reach a phase where someone is reaching out a hand, saying that they not only want to help, but that they want to be a champion — it didn’t feel real. Still doesn’t, truly. I’ll let you know when that changes.

Writing has helped, though. Opening the .docx for the first time in months, imagining that it smells musty, pretending to blow dust off the draft. Going back to Florence once more, losing myself in it. Enjoying the process and ignoring the noise of the next, daunting steps to come.

What is it that comes next? I’ll let you know when I get there.

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What I’m reading: I’m halfway through Jeremy Atherton Lin’s Gay Bar: Why We Went Out and I’m loving it — it’s beautiful, raw and smart. Richard Powers’s The Overstory has transformed the way I think about trees… even if the book was very long.

What I’m watching: “Get yourself a trainer” — enough said!