I mean...I've been writing lots (but really, lots. Like, I can almost see my story in solid book form now and the thought is both terrifying and exhilarating. Of course I am not delusional enough to think it'll be that easy, but there's a tiny sliver of hope that someday it'll happen for me). I've been working more. I've been running more. I've been reading a ton (currently on a Sylvia Plath kick and I just can't get enough).
I haven't really been doing that much schoolwork because, well, this is my last semester and to be honest with you my schedule is kind of a huge joke. I did get positive feedback at my fiction workshop this week which was so encouraging. I'm starting to think sometimes that I don't really suck so bad.
um yeah. So tomorrow I go on my spring break which is incredibly exciting because Syracuse is so gray and sad sometimes.
I never thought I'd say this even a year ago, but I am so excited to move on with my life. I am so excited to start that next chapter. And here's the crazy part: I don't even want to know how it all turns out. In the past not knowing made me so anxious...
...but now I'm like, wow, I am so looking forward to finding out what's in store for me.
last year I never would've thought I'd be writing fiction again like I am now. I never would've thought I'd want more than anything to become a writer again. I never would've thought I'd be thinking of going to grad school and teaching creative writing in the future. Never.
I had this clear-cut plan inside my head and no matter how unhappy it made me I forced myself to stick to it. I thought: magazines. I thought: New York City. I thought: fashion.
that's what everyone thought I'd be so that's what I felt that I had to be.
here's the truth, friends -- why I decided that stuff wasn't for me: fashion magazines triggered my eating disorder. I now realize I was only ever drawn to fashion because in that world it's not only acceptable to be a bobble-head, but it's kind of the norm, too. So there. That's the truth.
I'm sorry but everyone knows that's a f*cked up industry.
for years I've been so sad. And, honestly, sick. So sick.
maybe I wasn't thin to the bone like I was once, but I wasn't any better. I was miserable. I was jittery and anxious and scared. I was never, ever, ever good enough.
holy crap I was such an empty shell of a person.
I went to my internships and to my classes and I thought: I need to lose weight I need to lose weight I need to lose weight. Or someone would make a comment and I would think to myself, f*ck, I'm so fat and so inadequate.
I remember my senior year of high school thinking that all I needed to do to find happiness was leave home. I mean, it worked for a while. Until the novelty of college wore off.
it's true what they say, guys. Your problems will follow you wherever you go. I wish I would've listened.
the only thing that's ever made me happy is writing (okay, and Simba and my friends and my dad and my sister and my boyfriend but you know what I mean). Like, at my job I get to write a lot and although it's not fiction, it's the best part about the work I do. Years ago I abandoned this crazy pursuit to become a novelist because I feared rejection and I feared not being good enough and I feared everything.
so I'm glad this year I was like, what the hell am I doing? I am a writer and I've been a writer ever since I was 12 and wrote my first novel, tragically titled "My Little Pigeon" (books with birds in them freak me out, so I'm not exactly sure what was wrong with me but just pretend I never said that, okay?). I can do this.
it may take forever but I know I can do this.
and you know what the best part is? I don't know how this all ends and that's perfectly fine with me.
I mean, life takes some interesting twists and turns, doesn't it? For all we know twenty years from now I'll be a world renowned biologist or something...(HAHA NO).