Victoria Chang, On Process

Sometimes writing can feel like digging holes, planting and replanting things that might never turn into anything. My eyes point down when I’m planting, but the breath of something else is always in my ears. Sometimes that breath is mortality. Other times, that breath is history. Sometimes memory. Sometimes the moon. Oftentimes, silence.

Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief, p. 77

2 responses to “Victoria Chang, On Process”

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