“But then one night this spring my husband pointed out that lately every time I had a review to work on I got really really grousy and cranky about it. He said it seemed like maybe I wasn’t enjoying myself. And very quickly I recognized that he was correct. I was not enjoying myself. I was opposite of enjoying myself. And as soon as I realized this everything about “music writing” started seeming repellant to me, like a room you have spent too much time in or a sandwich you have packed too many times for lunch.”
E.B. White in his boathouse in Allen Cove, Maine. Sentence for sentence, word for word, perhaps the most elegant American essayist of the 20th century. If I could write like anyone, it would be him. Recommended reading.
H/t Workspaces.
I want this for my own. Please, next year, let this happen at some point.