I’m leaving this post here, since it was emotionally true at the time. However, three years ago, my mental health was not nearly so well managed as it is now, and I do believe that shows in these posts.
A few days ago, within the span of thirty minutes, the first person I have ever fallen in love with and I broke up, and I got accepted into a a top SF/F writing workshop, Viable Paradise. The universe has dropped some anvils on my head before, but this one easily won the prize for causing emotions that an angst-ridden teenage vampire novel does not come close to expressing. I had been angling to get into Viable Paradise for a year, and all I felt was intolerably sad.
I did not expect my relationship to not work out, not really. I thought, if I was just brave enough, if I just loved her enough, we would find a way to work it out. I was wrong.
That was the end. The beginning was joy like the sun had come out, and I had never known it was cloudy before. I was rainbows and kittens in love. I was so cheerful that it is a small miracle my friends did not bodily eject me from their presence.
I have a bit of a coyote spirit: I get trampled by a herd of antelope, and after some heartfelt whimpering, I wonder where they went so that I can go catch and eat one of them.
Which brings me to writing. I’m not good enough. I know I am not good enough. This animated video of an Ira Glass poem sums it up well:
I want to get better at writing, and I want what I write to have that same, intense joy as being in love. I want the words I put into story to matter as much as the things I said to the person I was in love with. I don’t know how to write like that. I intend to learn how.