Never mind the radio silence. Never mind the static or the quiet. Never mind the fact that you haven’t heard from me in a while. I gave up for a moment. Thought my writing was worthless. Began to wonder why I do this at all.
My work was critiqued in a way I was unfamiliar with, and while the critique stung, it wasn’t just my fellow author’s words that threw me for a loop, it was my own mind. I began to question all of my writing: my poetry, my short stories, my novels, all of it. But now, I’m back, and I’m going to be writing through all of it: the pain, the hatred of myself and my words, the happiness.
Things are going well, aside from the self-destruction. I’m planning my wedding with the man of my dreams, we’re getting a new place this summer, I’m making new friends, and still progressing with school.
I will write this novel. I will write the short stories.