letters

I've been working on this piece for a while...I guess it's a short story. I'm not sure. I don't know. But I'm starting to get really frusturated with it. It's not that I'm unhappy with the general plot...just with my presentation of it. As usual. I know that noone is expecting me to become the next great American author or to change the world or anything with this piece. Yet, I want to. I want it to be perfect before I submit it.

Re-reading it (to me at least), it seems very jumbled...like I'm jumping all over the place and don't have a clear point of view. I start out with an expose of the "feminazi" stereotype then shift into the first person voice of our narrorator. In my mind, she's in her early 30s and is reflecting on her youth and her recogniton of her gender. She's successful, a kindergarten teacher in a predominatly Caucasian, upper-middle class suburb of Nashville. I have no problem establishing a backstory or anything for my charactors, it's hard for me to have that come through without going completly array.

I mean, whatever. I'm not that strong of a writer. It's just...I have all of these amazing ideas but I know they will never come to life in the way I envisioned.

Lately, it's not just my prose that has become sucky...it's even affecting my poetry. To the point...to the point where I can't even write. I know, I'm probably just too stressed that my brain wont let me write anything substantitive. But, what if I'm not?

What if I'm permantly tapped out creatively? Then what? I just become one more...one more blank face in the infanite sea of drones, moving mindlessly throughout their lives...never questioning...never really living.

It's thoughts like these that make me need a cigarette. Or three.