I’m getting very close to finishing, and publishing, the book I have been working on for the past year and a half. It is a collection of personal essays called Meet Me in the Distance. As I mentioned in a previous blog post I was struggling with one particular chapter for a while, but I believe I have achieved a workable compromise. A compromise between what, you may ask? A compromise between the substance of the story that wants to be told, in all its unfathomable and ultimately mysterious inner depths, and the limitations of the practical implementation of that story in words. There is no doubt that the story wants to be told; there is a subtle urgency to it that has gathered and increased in strength and focus over the course of my time working on the book. This force is in fact the whole justification for writing the book. I have not chosen a topic to write about, the topic has chosen me. I am hoping, as most writers of autobiographical literature do, that something of this urgency will be communicated to the reader and so will make the reading of it worthwhile, but of course I can’t know that, just sitting here alone in my study and typing on my laptop. Making this book and putting it out into the world is an act of faith, of faith in the fundamental importance of one’s (and of everyone’s) own paltry humanity. We are all ordinary but there is something sacred, something profoundly vital, about our ordinariness. This is the sensibility I hope to convey in my writing.