After publishing my first novel Catalina I spiraled into strange despair. Writing, for me, had always been about connection, yet I felt both disconnected from what I’d written and by how it was being received. Had I written a noir? I hadn’t set out to. Was my protagonist unlikeable? I liked her—and no, she wasn’t me. More seasoned writers I knew had described publishing as a rollercoaster, but this was akin to that feeling of being alone in a crowd, except also naked, and I had chosen to be naked. I joked about retiring, about fleeing to another country. Over time this feeling lessened or I got used to it. I went on to publish a second novel and went through a similar set of emotions followed by an eventual ebbing. I expected the same when my third novel was published in 2022 except the despair or disconnect—whatever you want to call it—didn’t go away. It didn’t lessen. Friends and colleagues called it burnout. I wasn’t so sure. Work on my fourth novel stagnated to a halt. Who is a writer if she doesn’t write? By this time, I had moved from Los Angeles to Berlin. Maybe retiring wasn’t a joke. Forgive my long introduction, but it’s important to understand that when I write that Sofia Samatar’s book Opacities came to me when I needed it most—both as a writer and as a human being—I am being earnest. It is a generous book filled with perhaps more poetic grace than we deserve. In it, Samatar blends letters written to her friend and fellow writer Kate Zambreno that discuss the contradictions of the writing life as well as identity (both on the page and in the publishing arena), with insights pulled from literary titans, who, as it turns out, struggled with similar questions of disconnection and meaning. The result is an impassioned exploration on the experience and practice of writing, which, for me, served as a much-needed reminder of how writing and reading connects us to a mysterious joy. One that is cause for celebration. – Liska Jacob * LJ […]
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