I don’t know what to do with this desire. If I were speaking, I could stutter, and frustration would make me forget everything else. Would frustration make me do something? I’m becoming frustrated as I write this sentence. Desire seems to have this effect on me. I started to write derisive instead of desire. Perhaps part of me is contemptuous of these kinds of sentences. I imagine someone whispering in my ear that what I’m writing is worthless. Twenty minutes ago I was taking notes on a letter Freud received from a friend and colleague in July 1913. A minute ago, I decided not to mention who wrote the letter to Freud. For some reason this is difficult to admit: Ernest Jones might not interest enough readers. He and Freud wrote letters to each other from 1908 to 1939. Is thirty-one somehow an important number to whatever it is I’m writing? Maybe I desire to be thirty-one again. What is the desire that I alluded to in the opening sentence? I’m immersing myself in something here. A memory comes to me – I pause while I remember how old I was in September 1997 – from when I was thirty-one: I spent three days alone at what was then our family cabin in the San Juan Islands and struggled to write about what it was like to be alone in the woods. My desire to discover my own writing style might have been born on those rainy days thirty-one years ago. To remind myself: I mentioned desire in the present tense in the opening sentence. Words come to mind, as if they had been waiting for me since the opening sentence: I desire to discover new ways to immerse myself in the reading of Freud’s and Jung’s correspondences on my shelves. Maybe I should reread these sentences to see what I’ve been discovering.