Brooklyn, blazing Sunday morning. A walk to the expensive Japanese/French cafe where I sit inside and probably should be outside. Pouring words into a block of paper when I should be pouring them elsewhere, into a place where they are more “useful” and visible. I don’t even know what these things mean.

I am not the first woman to fret over this, whether the journal is a crutch. So my answer is to see if I can find a space that is more public but still mine.

I am neither young nor old, neither rich nor poor, neither fat nor thin, neither beautiful or hideous, neither a genius or a dolt. I have no children. The only complicated relationship I tolerate is the one I have with New York City.

At the French/Japanese cafe on the corner, the barista plays the music too loud at 8:00 am. It’s so hot that the usual crowd has not arrived — the stroller moms and the workout girlies and the dog walkers. It is me and a few other people, equally grim and sweating, unhappily hatted. I order a decaf because lately, I cannot sleep. I am kept awake by all manner of things, rational and not. Mostly the culprit is the story raging in my head, the ultimate example of the rational and not.

This is an attempt at telling the story, to let it out into the world. So I can sleep.