After posting some short story non-fiction, I was surprised at how well it was received. 43 reads in a little over 24 hours, and two votes.
To be honest, all that story is was me writing down old, horrible memories in a deep fit of depression.
Now, people want more. Of course I have the autobiographical subject matter to continue with the series, but that last story was incredibly painful to write.
Another thing is that somebody left a comment that they cried. That’s a little steep, knowing that just my words alone can evoke that kind of emotion.
I am exhausted. First re-write of short story done, supposedly vastly improved. At least it’s not at the “who wrote this crap?!” stage. I hate that stage. At the risk of repeating myself, I’m my worst critic, and I’m also my favorite bullying target.
I’ve come to notice that most of the premises of my stories are profoundly morose and messed up. Sometimes I wonder if writing is like a mirror into your subconscious, and it really is you, just the parts hidden from prying eyes. The parts from the nightmares.
I finally heard back from that internship, seems like I’ll be reviewing local events in the July and October issues, plus online. Work is stressful due to a deadline for a sizable government business grant coming up. While I’m pleased that somebody has enough confidence in me to trust me with generating the required documentation for that kind of endeavor, I really hope I don’t mess it up, either.