Remove heart from chest.

I’ve been carrying a grief story around for so long, and it’s taken so many shapes, that it’s begun to feel like a cheat and an albatross and an omnipresence. I wrote yet another grief story, and pounded the shit out of it in revision, and now I’m in that strange place post-writing, post-turn-in, before the fall, and I’m all wrung out. Didn’t make it to the gym today because I needed the revision time. Snapped at friends. Was a basket case. And I wonder, can I sustain this for the year or more it’ll take to get down the memoir? Because 3,000 words just about kilt me.
Oh well. I wish I had higher hopes of workshop going well tomorrow, but I doubt it–it’s not a story anyone but me could love, I fear. It fails Urrea’s shiny treasure test: that a work of art asks of its reader, “I have a shiny treasure here in this cave. Come with me and I will show you it.” But you have to be compelling, convincing, not creepy enough to get people to follow you into that cave. I fear I lose them on page two.
But this is my babylove, the risky story, the one whose emotional core I pulled right out of my own open chest wound, and I love the metaphors run amok. It is a failure I can love and believe in, even if others hate it.
I do hate to fail. Must inure myself, though. Because failure’s the whole point.


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