I feel crazy sometimes. All my work is in my head. I’m moving around a million little pieces of nothing, a million thoughts and feelings and memories inside my head, day after day, for years, there’s this enormous scaffolding and planning, like I’m building a cathedral of toothpicks inside my head. And it doesn’t even help to keep a diary, because I can’t make the words on the page have any effect on my brain. As soon as I write a thing down I leave it behind. It’s like dropping pennies over the side of a boat. And I’m doing all this mental work without any possibility of external support, and meanwhile my own husband is pretending that the whole point of all this huge internal work isn’t real. And so, more and more, literally the only beacons I still have in my life, my only north and south and east and west, are my emotions.
― Jonathan Franzen, The Corrections.