I'm Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

During my last week of graduate school, I printed copies of my thesis to gift to friends.

I wanted the poems in the hands of people who were generous without hesitation,

friends who brought over homemade tortilla soup during exams,

who left supportive greeting cards in my mailbox,

folks who simply said an encouraging word when I had doubts about completing my master's program.

I met one such friend at a local brewery.

It was our last night seeing each other. We'd worked together at an

organic health food store in Eugene. After an hour of chit-chat, before we were about to depart,

I pulled out my bag, a bound copy of my palms. He pushed back his dreads, took it in his hands, and said,

you wrote this? I said, yeah, I did. In a tone of genuine amazement, he replied,

I just didn't know people had this many thoughts.

I was suddenly self-conscious.

I heard his remark as pity for me.

Does anything settle your mind? he asked.

I said, yes. Writing.

Momentarily.

I took a last wig of my beer, stood up, and laughingly said,

You don't have to read it. He joked. It might take a few years, but I'll get to it.

I walked away wondering if writing was an affliction, I had never considered the question,

does a restless mind given to language suggest a restless spirit, ill at ease with the world around me?

Is it unnatural to want to write a book?

...