Lately, I’ve been thinking about crossroads.
It started when I revisited Saeed Jones’ beautiful and searing essay “A Poet’s Boyhood at the Burning Crossroads,” about living, and writing, at the intersection of being both a Black man and a gay man in America.
“What’s the first thing that happened to your writing practice when lockdown started?” my friend Maria asked me.
“Same as what happened to everyone else. Everything closed.”
Gotham’s office closed. All the coffee shops closed. My writing space closed. My writers group stopped meeting at a bright, bustling diner on 14th Street. Because it’s closed.
“Fix that. And then never, ever do it again!”
One of my all-time favorite teachers said that to me in a workshop once—in a voice more good-natured ribbing than barking command—after I wrote “my sisters and I” when I should have written “my sisters and me.” It was a small flub, one my classmates didn’t even notice.