For some reason, this particular assignment is messing with me. You see, this will be my first review for The Times, and it’s sort of a Big Deal. The note was pleasant and straightforward, and promised a “fun assignment.” I agreed! But as the deadline has drawn closer, I’ve begun freaking out a bit. The invitation seemed to come out of nowhere: one minute I was wasting time on Twitter the next, there was an e-mail asking me to review “Tiny Beautiful Things,” a collection of Cheryl Strayed’s online advice columns for The Rumpus. Writing just isn’t as much fun as it used to be.Īnyway, I’ve been asked to contribute to The New York Times Book Review. The work of others, which once only inspired me, now also paralyzes me. I question my own ideas and talents more than ever. For some reason, the older I get, the harder it is for me to write. (By the way, I hate the word “career.”) But that’s not what has happened. I’m doing O.K., and you’d think the fact that editors continue to work with me would lend legitimacy to my career, at least in my own eyes. I’ve published magazine articles, newspaper columns and a Web site. I’m in my late 30s and have been writing and editing professionally for about 20 years. And I fear that by asking it, I’ll be exposing myself as either a privileged nincompoop or a terrified impostor. I’m sort of afraid to ask it because, in the whole scheme of things, of life - mine and others’ - it’s a blessing. By that I mean, I have a problem that’s not really a problem. DEAR SUGAR: I have a sort of pathetic question.

Tiny beautiful things review