a million doors await

and what lies behind them?

Come with me for a moment. Look around. It's a room, or maybe an endless expanse. It's hard to wrap your head around what you're seeing, really. There are doors, a dizzying number of them. They extend in every direction without end, each one growing smaller until they resemble the windows of a distant building. Each door is a deep brown or red or green, each door has a bronze or steel or gold knob. Below each knob, there is a keyhole, but these keyholes are not the traditional shape. Each keyhole is unique. As you examine one, you can see that it would seem to open if you were to insert a wristwatch. Another looks like a perfect recipient for a wok. There are keyholes shaped like all sorts of objects: running shoes, teapots, ice cream scoopers, telescopes.

With the time that you have, you can choose which keys to find and become familiar with. Dedicating your time to any of these activities will grant you access to the respective door. Who knows what waits behind the door — you have to take the time to find out, spend the time moving through the unknown until you discover whether your efforts will lead to something that you wanted, or to nothing at all. Perhaps the door with the guitar-shaped keyhole will take you to superstardom; perhaps it will take you nowhere at all. Through the door is a dark mist that ends eventually, but you don't know how far you must go. As you try not to trip, as you grasp aimlessly toward any sort of clarity, you will gain something. Your blind journey will expand the world you know, a world that's unknown to those who never opened the door that you chose.

The door you pick doesn’t define you entirely, but it shapes you. The tool you select leaves indentations in your hand, in your nerves, in your very essence. The work of doing anything becomes a part of how you function. This isn’t just woo-woo; your neurons strengthen the pathways you use most, you think in ways inspired by your actions. You are what you do.

There are pencil-shaped marks on my hands and in my psyche. Years ago, I decided that the fog of a life of writing was the one I would wander through. I jiggled the handles of the camera-lock door and the drawing tablet-lock door, thought about which other ones might hold something worth trying. But eventually, I landed on this one.

When I began to write years ago, what did I imagine awaited me on the other side of the door? I wasn't ambitious, didn't ever think that writing would make me rich and famous. It would be a hobby that would keep me sane, a way to imitate the great artists I admired across film and music and literature and painting. But as a hobby, it would always be something relatively small in my life, right?

After nearly a month in New York, it's becoming clear to me why I moved here. I had pointed to many different reasons for my move: being closer to my family, the desire for a more energetic city in my twenties, a general desire for change. The biggest reason, I see now, was always my writing: to be a part of the biggest writer scene, to live a life resembling all of the novels I read, to be among my people.

I didn't realize how important this was to me until I began to experience it. In the last couple of weeks, I've found myself increasingly in the company of fellow writers, the people I was longing to surround myself with.

This week, I went to a meetup of Substack users, talking to strangers and familiar faces about our shared love of rendering our lives in the written word. Some of us had met previously, and we asked each other about the essays we had read from one another, closer than acquaintances thanks to our knowledge of each other's work.

I've also been getting to know the sublessor whose room I'm staying in, a fellow writer. Initially, I felt intimidated by her to some degree, with her understanding of the literary scene from a career in publishing and her full-time commitment to writing her novel. But in every conversation, we're able to dive deep into the books we both adore, the pains and pleasures of trying to bleed onto the page. We are different in myriad ways but linked inherently by the paths we've taken in our commitment to writing.

Graciously, she brought me to the co-working space for writers. The white, light-filled room brims with books, and all sorts of talented creative people spend their time working. As I visited, there were a few other writers present, and I felt shy talking to them, wondering if I was enough of a real writer to be in a place like this.

When I started to chat with them, I still felt a bit awkward until we reached the question that made the conversation flow: "What is everyone reading right now?" Just as you'd expect from a literary group, we all spoke more freely once we could talk about the works that we were excited about in the moment. My nerves dissipated — I loved talking about books and writing as much as everyone else there, and that was enough.

It was in this moment, and in all the conversations with the writers I've met recently, that it became clear what all of this dedication to writing, what my journey through the door, had been leading me toward. The time spent grinding at drafts, writing and rewriting the same sentence over and over again, the dozens of books read — all of this was fodder for shared experience and connection to others chasing similar paths through the same door.

The mist beyond the door once felt cold and empty, and what lies ahead is still unknown. But as I continue to walk forward, I hear the voices of those who journey with me.

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💧 Drops of the Week 💧

• PLAYLIST - brain massage - fun playlist by my brother

• POEM - “Thursday” by James Longenbach - Because the most difficult part about making something, also the best, / Is existing in the middle,