Andalusia, Flannery O’Connor’s Estate, in Milledgeville, Georgia
Flannery O’Connor’s story, “The Crop,” centers on Miss Willerton who we meet amidst a domestic task thinking about writing a story: “It was a relief to crumb the table. Crumbing the table gave one time to think, and if Miss Willerton were going to write a story, she had to think about it first.”
The short story continues moving in and out the narrative she crafts. Its innovation is that it can be difficult to disentangle what is happening in front of Miss Willerton and what is the story she is writing. We reach the climax when the narrative frame O’Connor has built dissolves and Willerton inserts herself as the story’s hero, saving a man from his knife-wielding wife.
There are certainly other vectors of analysis here, but for me, this story is a powerful indictment of quotidian life. There is a need to inscribe ourselves onto something other than the life we’re living, to write a different narrative for ourselves, something more exciting, something more meaningful.
I have found myself these past few years feeling like Miss Willerton, caught in that liminal space of writing. Thinking about writing but not actually writing. My job and the life I’d been living in DC was consuming—timewise—but also draining. I had very little capacity to meaningfully engage my creative or intellectual faculties. My job certainly wasn’t engaging them. Too used to reading and writing abbreviated memos and bullet points; too willing to navigate political and personal egos; too amenable to deploying economic and policy speech that is evacuated of all meaning, I was becoming (and still am) worried about containing and sustaining deep thought and attention.
There have always been tasks that have taken me away from something else I’d rather be doing. This modern condition is not new, nor is it unique, but it is true. And this arrest and stasis has felt more powerful and more urgent the older I get.
So after 10 years living and working in Washington, DC, I decided to take a break, and move up north—Syracuse, New York. For the next year, I’ll be engaged in coursework at the S.I. Newhouse School but also TA’ing and reading and writing as I think about my next career move.
It goes without saying what a privilege this is to be able to step out of my life and to know that I have friends and family who can support me from a distance but also welcome me back when I’m ready–or, really, when I need a job again.
As part of that, I’ll be dipping a toe into the newsletter writing game. Many of you have always known me as a writer (or, blogger), and, yes, I have had many iterations over the years. From my high school days with a Xanga, to my Blogspot in undergrad, to my listserv “What’s the Dili” when I lived in Timor-Leste, to my TinyLetter, to my Mailchimp, and, finally, to my (barely used) Substack, I have moved across platforms.
I am excited for this next version at beehiiv. (I’ll make another post on my decision to write here at beehiiv and why.)
I’m not sure what is next, and I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m looking to commit myself to the task(s) at hand: soaking up as many reading and writing experiences as I can, writing more regularly here, expanding my professional network, and honing my craft and voice.
Like Miss Willerton, after a summer of logistics—putting things into storage, getting a car, the actual act of moving—I’m excited to get to work.
“Miss Willerton drained the crumbs into her hand and threw them out the window. She took the catcher and crumber to the kitchen and ran them under the cold-water faucet. She dried them and stuck them back in the drawer. That was over. Now she could get to the typewriter. She could stay there until dinnertime.”
After all, procrastination is how you preserve the fantasy of your potential. I’m going to spend the next year chasing new and old fantasies.
See you back here soon?
Aaron
