last night i got back to writing that short story that’d given me such trouble in the morning, and it went pretty well. i couldn’t focus on it for too long, my attention seeming to just push away from the page after a while, but there was progress and i was glad for it.
the rough time i’d had with it in the morning put me deeper into this funk that’s already been going on for a few days now, where i’m convinced that my writing sucks and that it isn’t taking me anywhere professionally.
doom and gloom.
but then suddenly, after one good session with the page, i’m convinced that this story is great, one of the best things i’ve ever done, and i’m telling myself that this one’s going to make it, that i should send it to the big magazines once i’m done.
i’m sure that the real best-case scneario is that the story ends up being fine, only fine, but i’m stanidng here in awe at how, after so many years of this, all it takes is a single writing session to put a radical and immediate spin on my mood, my sense of self worth, my thoughts about the future…
i just recently got out of my second affair with elle, whom i dated for three or four months last year and then again between like late january and the beginning of march, and she and i could go on talking for hours and hours, we had so much in common, but somehow we could get under each other’s skin and totally flip the mood of an evening with just a single remark.
we each knew how to unravel one another.
and we kept doing it, lapsing into arguments, and then the arguments would just as quickly lapse into giggles and playfulness and flirting. the affair just ended again for the same reason it ended last time, more or less, and i’m having to caution myself against ever striking something up with her again. something about our chemistry makes us volatile. like two similar chemicals that intertwine perfectly but also routinely explode.
which is essentially my relationship with writing.