Today I had the urge to punctuate everything properly. I wrote a note to myself, capitalizing the first word of each sentence and all proper nouns. I did not abuse any semi-colons or dashes. I even left in the serial comma.
It was strangely satisfying.
I miss being edited. I miss red marks on the sheet. I miss sitting in a room with something I’d written projected onto the wall being torn apart, my words flying all over the place, forcing me to pick up the pieces and clean up the mess. The dread of sharing my story sat heavy in the pit of my stomach, but it always made me a better writer. It always made me want to try harder next time.
I wish I could say that this motivates me, but sometimes it just allows me to indulge myself more than I deserve. I wish I could say that I am working toward something bigger here, but what will I do with these words when I’m through?
I told him: I don’t remember the last time I actually made something. Like, something you can hold in your hand or look at from a couple feet away or read while you’re lying in bed. Lately, I just feel like I am making my room messy and cleaning it up again.
Last night, though, something shifted. I got the bug. The ideas poured out in sloppy sketches and arrows and captions. They are ambitious. Difficult, really. Maybe I’ll fail miserably and you will be stuck with this, some more, for a while longer. But maybe I’ll surprise us.