The Furious Spinner

Getting ready to lead a discussion about Tim O'Brien's novel In the Lake of the Woods. When I was reading about him, his essay "The Vietnam in Me" was mentioned again and again. They would write about how uncomfortably revealing it was—a kind of suicide note, a cry for help. I read it and thought this was obviously written (and read) before author blogs and websites and these reviewers were not used to writers writing about themselves. It is an extremely moving essay, but as I read it, I didn't think the author was going to kill himself. "The Vietnam in Me" was not a suicide note, it was a living note. When we write—by "we" I mean some of us who write—we are writing to save ourselves. Writing is not about annihilation. It's about redemption.

Tomorrow morning I go to juvenile detention to talk with some teenage girls. Some of them read Mercy, Unbound. I'm looking forward to talking with them.

I went to the doctor today. We're moving toward surgery, unless other things come to light of the negative kind. I could tell the doctor was angry with me for not getting help earlier. I said, "You don't understand. Coming here was like walking into a burning building." He didn't understand. I don't understand. The mind is a terrible thing. Period. We'll just keep progressing and see how it goes. He wants me on major drugs. They always do. Last night I dreamed I was living in the Night of the Living Dead. I kept trying to get the house all closed up so they couldn't get in, but I could see it wasn't going to work. So finally I just ran. And ran. And ran. Going deeper and deeper into the dark where it was safe. I awakened with my heart racing, in a sweat, glad it was a dream.

Off to the library. I hope you have all been walking in beauty.

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