You know what is sometimes good? Leaving the house. It’s something I tend to forget. Even in the pre-pandemic world I could become a bit of a shut-in, especially when working on something big. It’s like you just forget to engage in anything outside of your own realm. And if you’re me, you tell yourself that isolation is a part of a larger Very Smart and Disciplined creative philosophy. Nope! That’s utter horseshit. As I was recently reminded when I was forced to leave my home/writing cave to come out to LA and celebrate the release of the MMITB doc. In between events, a friend and checked out Joan Didion: What She Means, curated by Didion’s friend, the writer Hilton Als. It’s weird to have a visual art exhibit about a writer. And even weirder to have an art exhibit about a writer curated by another writer. What is the art part? What are we looking at that collectively gets at some larger truth or sense of understanding of Didion’s work? But I loved it. So much. Didion herself was a kind of alchemist. A magpie assembler of facts and impressions and senses of things into work that felt, in its refracted, prismatic, fractured way, like the most unflinching, crystal-clear rendering of the modern world imaginable. This exhibition so captured that. I was walking through it, looking at things on walls and in cases – photos of Didion smiling as a young woman (riveting and almost upsetting to see her before her stare became her calling card) and vintage Vogues and video of John Wayne and Diane Arbus photographs – and feeling all the things I felt when I first read Didion: gob smacked, agitated, exhilarated, and… in a hurry to go home and write.