When I become stuck intellectually and socially, but mostly when I become stuck in love, I tend to move.
Each place is bigger in some way than the last, each more expansive. My next move, for instance, will be either to New York or to a foreign country. I do it in that distinctly snobbish American desire to 'find myself', or at least find something outside myself that I can grab a hold of and sink into and distract myself from, well, the uncertainty of myself.

Kundera calls it a system of betrayals, each needing to be bigger than the last. But in the end, where can you finally run? Death is an inevitability, in which one can neither embrace it too soon nor deny it too long. We write to distract ourselves from that dirty little secret.

That writing is beautiful in that it is an innocent and sometimes naive white lie.