With all the daily political drama, and all the fight with the local group of Indivisible, I forget. I forget that I am an individual too. With specific talents and, possibly, a mission.
I forget this incessant Trumpian drama is but an interruption, that this frustration, this anger will eventually stop. Because this regime will stop.
I forget that I can resume what I love to do. Write. And today, I got a reminder.
Once in a while (often in dark moments when I tell myself my steps on the writing page are useless and insignificant), I get messages of people telling me that some people like my reviews. I am always happily surprised when I see this. The joy is comparable to people enjoying my books. Writing is writing is writing. It tells me that people are reading and are reading readers, searching and thinking. A good sign.
Today, I was all the more surprised that two readers liked a review of a book that had completely gone out of my mind. A book of essays with a great title, actually, The War Against Clichés by Martin Amis.
Yes, we do forget. A dangerous thing, forgetting ourselves. A good thing there are those around us to remind us.