Any work I read by Anais Nin, I prepare myself. The house must be quiet, and the chores must be done. I dim the lights. A prefatory setting must be made as though I’m setting out my finest cutlery for her impending visit. I know I’ll spend a great deal of time on the corner section of the sofa, and I’ll have already chewed my fingernails to the point of tenderness.

on writing

I read her essay, “The New Woman,” retreating to the deep reflection of her senses that lured me in the first place. She wrote about why one writes, liking it to breathing. She wrote profusely about how writing allowed her to experience life twice.

Writing can help one become increasingly aware. In moments when a writer feels bound, writing can liberate and create more room.

on artists

Anais Nin lived through other artists, and not just those who draw, compose music or design architecture. In her essay, she broadens this representation to those trapped in the house of the creative spirit — those with ideas and wanting to share them; those who seek to embody their internal world and who still bear their child-like fantasies into adulthood. She believed the creative quality that manifests in one makes an artist. She adds that psychologists often validate what poets have spoken about long ago, following a quote by Freud, “Everywhere I go, I find a poet has been there before me.” Nin aspired to both men and women creatives, particularly Henry Miller, whom she esteemed for the writer he was and the context in which he wrote. “I think I saw Miller very clearly,” she said.

on the new woman

On “The New Woman,” Nin envisions the novel woman blossoming today. This woman is courageous and adventurous and harmonizes with her strength but is quiet about it. She rations sharing her growth and success. This woman is no longer homebound through chores while wearing an apron. Rather, this woman encourages the man to be a partner with her, not a provider, and a sensitive man, at that, not threatened or compromised by this new woman.

Women have served as muses for a long time, and Nin cleaved onto this desire to be this inspiration to avoid having to write herself. For years, women were not asked to be pushed into the direction of a great writer, doctor or philosopher, but to marry and raise children. This new woman, however, faces her trauma and fear, falls in love hopelessly, taps into her sensuality and explores the confusing world of her own neurosis.

Anais Nin and her psyche

In her complex framework, Anais Nin finds poetry as essential as philosophy and psychology — which we lean into to recenter our misaligned selves. An artist rearranges herself to write fiction and dismantles herself to write her diaries, but the division is complementary and integrated. Her intuition sloshes along rationale without blending, like water and oil, and coexists when contained.

If you have read her diaries, you know she has delved into her vulnerabilities and explored her curiosities. Plunging into her psyche, one will come out soaked and disoriented from the depths of her perception. Nin does not highlight the disparity between women and men, femininity and masculinity. She blurs the lines, leading you to where the two converge. Where there is poetry, there is intellectuality. Where there is devastation, you will find creation.

In days when I’m confounded in my reverie, I look to Nin for having dreams and penchants. To assert myself. To have passion and communicate through the channel of emotion. To be moved by impulses and to stand rooted in personal conviction.

If you’ve reflected all your life, then you’re no stranger to finding deep meaning in books, writing and other forms of expression. From simple sentences to an entire symphony, you connect, as though you long to or are already a part of the subject matter. It’s a quirk, a tendency, a hobby you instinctively do. By staring too long at spaces and things, parsing out the unseen, rationalizing with the arrival of feelings while trying to untangle the framework before you, you’re rewarded a profound understanding, a truth, a refreshing outlook or reality.

Seeing isn’t enough; you need to know and believe that there’s substance, a story, a trauma, beyond words and pictures either to disprove your insanity or to confirm theirs.  It’s part of the creative process that bridges us on an entirely different plane. On this plane, you sense the cynics in the room, brush shoulders with the thinkers and oversleep with the dreamers.

Yet on this same plane, you worry about whether the job description looks too frumpy on you or if your 3.1 GPA brings out your eyes. You let everyone in line cut in front of you, despite a few decent friends telling you the water’s fine.

I walked around the cul-de-sac tonight. The scent of impending rain reminded me of the first few drops after it had not rained for months. The warm smell of asphalt, tickling the nose, and wet grass —  petrichor.

Nostalgia rocked me.

Those rainless months in California left an indelible impression, spawning my romanticism for rainfall. The sun hit differently there, how it baked your forearms, your shoulders. Now, you treasure weather patterns, the speed of traffic and empty intersections at dead hours. I still recall the quiet drive home, precise traffic lights and 2 a.m. drive-thru meals. The way the headlights hit the last stop sign before making my last turn to the house. How about those nights Dad locked me out, forcing me to crawl through the doggy door?

It’s funny now.

Heavy eyeliner, blond highlights and a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s, things we could afford.

I can talk about these things now.

Today, I wondered if my life needs to be more eventful to feed my creative endeavors. Daily drives to the city, idling in traffic, my son’s language flourishing — these things I know. Five yoga classes a week, burning the candles at both ends, another call to action, another copy, another condolence. Just feeling spectacularly average in this peripatetic life.

I played a Bright Eyes record today. Conor sang of pain like a big red rubber ball. Like receiving a call from Mom on the home’s landline, telling you she’s working double. Dad’s still stuck in Burbank and the only light turned on in the house is the second-floor hallway. Leftovers again. You are home, but you’re homesick. Afraid of school the next day, wondering how to blend in as a tomboy, standing in a straight line with the pretty girls. My hair, black, tied in a ponytail; theirs long, blond and flowy. It’s all subconscious now, these things never leave you. It hardly stings anymore, but you recall the sensation.

In ways, life is slowing down, and these erstwhile events and people are catching up. Yet why is life moving faster than it ever did? It’s so easy for me to leave people. It’s even easier to recoil.

I’m still here. Lately, I’m plagued by knowing I’m going days without you as you age. White hair in your dark locks, but your deep red lipstick stays, vibrant, familiar.  Another year goes by after Mitchel’s death, but I mourn differently. I grieve like a mother, not like a sister.

How do you understand anything or see them through when you’re good at leaving?  When you’re here not for a long time but a good time?

These lamentations have nowhere to go but bleed into spaces, vacant or occupied. Nothing to fix here. No void to fill, right, just space. Stories with really no punch line or allegorical theme. Just sharing. Living, and if you care enough, courageous enough, you’ll learn.

I’ve been reading about David Foster Wallace in Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself by David Lipsky. It’s a book in a transcript/interview format that tells the exchange between Rollingstone reporter and editor David Lipsky and Infinite Jest author, David Foster Wallace. They take a road trip. They sit with his dogs. They confess. They tell and find common ground.

I am the backseat passenger, the customer behind two dudes in line engaging in brilliant conversations that consumes me. Like being on the outside looking in, being incredibly drawn even though I can’t keep up with every inside joke, every esteemed piece of literature.

So many profound little bits here, this one in particular. Wallace sheds some insight into how reviewers will use his “first book as a noose to hang” his second. He also mentions how authors can be easily displaced because of new authors or “better” works hitting the market.

Wallace, an introspective soul as human as they come, arrives with profound insight as a writer, as a writer tackling topics that confound him some that include but are not limited to fame, prestige or life in general. Especially here; I love how he articulates or sometimes struggles to articulate, given his thought-riddled messy cognition, how he doesn’t identify with “more talented” or “less talented” or if something is “shit.” Rather, he thinks, “Man, there might be something here, but I just don’t get it. This is just not my cup of tea.”

How refreshing! How easily someone can dismiss a piece of work that fails to get across, so they reach for the closest, easy to grab, sorry excuse they could find instead of reasoning and sympathizing with the artist.

Wallace’s response is genuine and thoughtful because as someone who’s too into himself, too inside his own mind, David knows and knows too well how it’s like to go through these waves, how the “envy stuff” just burned him and how that kind of mindset can tear you up. He doesn’t “wanna send any blood supply to that part” of his brain anymore.

To be revered for your work and to want more recognition, it’s a vicious cycle and everyone’s out competing in a saturated market for the same small slice of the pie.

“And it’s not like I’m above it. It’s just that it — the amount that it hurts me, outweighs whatever good feelings it gives me.”