I live in airports. I live on pre-made sandwiches, I hope they are not all made in China. I hope they haven't traveled that far. Every morning I wake up at five, on a friend's couch, someone comes and takes me to the airport. It's all very glamorous. The book tour is really just beginning. I didn't pace myself, I was burnt out by the first day, wayworn the first day. Yet, moved more than I imagined I'd be. So many hands have kept me afloat. I worry that with all the air under me, I am becoming a vapor, I am nailing my shoes to the floor. The fear of reading from one's own memoir is that it could be a purely self-centered activity, yet I heard Brenda Hillman once say (I might be remembering her words imperfectly) that a poem starts with autobiography, then moves into the universal, and if one pushes further, it enters into the deeper mystery. So far, during the readings, it's felt like it's not about me at all.
Tonight I read in Brooklyn, I can walk to BookCourt from my house. Walk!
And I'd like to end the week with Michael. (Though why is it that the demons he's always fighting look like us?)
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Nick Flynn is the author of Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, winner of the PEN/Martha Albrand Award, and The Ticking Is the Bomb. He divides his time between Houston, Texas, and Brooklyn, New York.
Books mentioned in this post
Nick Flynn is the author of The Ticking Is the Bomb: A Memoir