6 July, 1997

What sort of story am I? Am I a drain of emotions, swimming and swirling toward a happy ending? Am I a rambling episode that refuses to end until I do? Am I a downer in which everyone dies and no-one gets to kiss the girl? Maybe I am all of those things. Maybe I am a rambling tale that leaves all the characters dead, and, though you are woefully drained, you know that is the best possible outcome.

_{(but we'll never know if i don't stop sabotaging myself)}

I spoke last time about going back to school so that I might become someone. Now, I've had time to think on that. I believe I have a better understanding of my real reasons for wanting to go back, what I want, and where my priorities are (as well as where they ought to be). I've realised school isn't my problem; it's jealousy. I am jealous of Lisa, Diane, and Ceej for they are — or are quickly becoming — better educated than I am. School won't do anything for my all-consuming jealousy. There will always be someone better at something than I am.

Which brings me to my next point: I've been concentrating so hard on other people, that I've forgotten to have a good, long look at myself. It doesn't matter what other people can or can't do; what can gage do?

I tell stories. I'm not the best and I'm not the worst, but it's what I do. I am unique. I have a voice and style that is mine alone. Most importantly, I have stories to tell. Being the "best" at it isn't the point, yet it's where I got hung up. Driving myself and my work into the ground because I'm not automatically the "best" is a bunch of subjective, insecure bullshit, and I refuse to do it anymore.

All these worries, misdirected attention, and the nagging "I'm not as good as other people" thoughts have left my manuscript a shambles. I can no longer afford to waste my time and energy. Life is slipping past me. If I don't get this story out of my head, I'll never catch up. I must do it now, before I forget, before I've grown so old that no-one cares or remembers. That means turning off — or tuning out — the evil internal editor. More easily said than done.

Dear.Net.Friend suggested a trick that might work. He told me to imagine I'm writing to my daughter only, to picture her finding my works 60 years from now, after I'm long gone. Yes, this I can do. Somehow, I know that my 60-year-old child will understand and love me no matter what I write, or how many commas I forget. Thinking of her, writing to her, or who she will be a long time from now, quiets that throbbing ache in my head. I am lighter. I am free.