I talked about Anna Karenina and writing with Rebecca today for about half an hour on my way to work.

Anna Karenina is the first novel that we’ve (sort of) read together, out of what I hope to be many more. It was really exciting for me to hear her tell me what she liked about the book so far, and what she didn’t like. She still has—by my estimate—about 260 pages to go, but I’ve enjoyed watching her form opinions about the book and the characters therein. She told me that she’s having trouble reading it sometimes, because she can’t stand Anna and Vronsky. I totally get that! I think that her dislike for those characters stems from her discomfort with their proud and selfish personalities, and their relationship borne out of what is never love.

We also talked about writing. I talked about why I enjoy it so much sometimes, and she talked about how writing isn’t a natural form of expression for her. It’s something that she’s working at, though. I think that, as writers, we’re all working at it. I don’t think that anyone was born in the midst of penning their Cien Años de Soledad or their Light in August. Writing is work, even when it comes easy.

I’m discovering that, for me, writing is just an outlet for my damnable hunger to be known and understood.