I am going to be honest. I’m losing my mind. It’s happened before. I’m quite aware of how the process works. There’s a certain futility in it. This futility manifests in everyday activities, in schoolwork. It comes as an overwhelming sense of “eh”. This “eh” sensation will lead you to say “Do I really need to get an A on that project when a B is just as okay?”. It will lead you to averageness. Soon, average will be “eh”. A D is still passing, isn’t it?

Writing is supposed to solve this program. It’s supposed to be there for me, whatever that means. My own words are supposed to embrace me. In the embryo of my words, I will be reborn anew. The dullness will fade and all will return to normal. But it doesn’t always work. I mean, when I’m writing, I feel that “Whoa, what I’m doing is fucking profound. It’s fucking meaningful, dude. I mean, whoa.” feeling. But that’s not enough. Yes, I feel like that when I write. Sometimes I have holy-shit-that’s-awesome sentences. And they’re good. But they’re not enough. It’s not enough to think that what I’m doing is profound or amazing as I’m writing it. It’s AFTER that it should still be profound. I need to be able to look at something and go “This is amazing, who wrote this?” and then realize, with a start, that these are my words. And yet, I know that I’ll never have that if only for the sheer familiarity. In my interview for Reed, Allea (my interviewer) said something that’s been said many times before in many different ways: fiction is merely a thinly veiled representation of a writer and her views. As a fiction writer I can say that this is true for me. I incorporate my thoughts, my abandoned hopes, my condemnations and my thoughts.

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