Just the other day he asked me how the novel was coming along. I referred him to an email that I had sent to him on 11/15:

"Not writing novel. Well, up to 797 words, but finding that subject of novel makes me bitter and introverted. So reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone instead. Harry Potter does not make me bitter and introverted. No, on the contrary, makes me sparkly and wizardy."

And that, my friends, on 11/15, was pretty much the end of that.

Instead, I spent the last 15 days thinking about how much I love novels. I thought about a good book and a comfortable chair. I thought about characters that seem like old friends, authors who seem like old lovers. And I realized something: I love reading novels. I really do. But I never, never want to write one.

I think it's been hard to 'fess up to that. It's a cop out. It's not, "I want to write a novel, but I just can't seem to find the time." or "Someday I'm just going to take off for the West and write the novel that has been gurgling inside my stomach all these years." But instead, somewhere in those 797 words, I admitted the truth that has eluded me through countless novel workshops and short story deadlines and endless persuasive conversations with friends: fiction just isn't for me. And then the bright epiphany followed immediately: just because I'm not writing fiction, doesn't mean that I don't have stories to tell. Or more importantly, the means to tell them.

And suddenly I couldn't wait for this week to be over. I couldn't wait to sit by the dim glow of candlelight and this familiar Textpad screen. I couldn't wait to get back to my lists. Back to my observations. Back to the reflection that makes me whole and the steady stream of consciousness that brings me peace. Back to writing exactly what I want to write. Writing exactly what I feel.

After an unusually long, trafficky drive from Ohio to DC on Sunday night, I arrived home to find a letter from Jay. And in his confusing, unique conversational style, he had written out on paper what had been tumbling through my mind for those eight hours of dark, humming solitude: "I'm so close to realizing what I've wanted to do-- I've always had a goal of getting work out there, but my real goal is to write. Yes, sure, it's easy to write, but so difficult to do it in a way that seems fulfilling. It only fulfills when there's a purpose. It's making more sense to me now than ever before. Feels good."

And I smiled. And I had to agree.