I am realizing now that being a writer doesn’t simply meaning pounding out beautiful prose. No. In fact it is quite the opposite. Beautiful prose is chance happened upon by repetition and dedication. For so long I’ve banked on inspiration and the right timing, deeming those sparse thoughts as glimmers of what’s to come. But those few beautiful thoughts were simple chance that can be honed in on further with dedication. The difference between being a good writer and a bad one is that good writers write bad, but then they write more. They take what was terrible and awful and abominable and put the dedication in to make it better. Perhaps that’s the trick to being great at anything - to accept that everything starts out as something embarrassing and atrocious to embrace, but the true artist takes a breath and embraces their awful work and chips at it till it’s great. It’s a strange thing for me to grasp, because I have always been so sure that if I am a good writer I will only write good things. But it’s quite the opposite. I will always write ugly, awful, cheesy passages that make me cringe and make me want to bury them away forever. But what makes me a good writer and someday a great writer is the pursuit of those passages that I want to hide and the willingness to stay with them. Being a writer is one great commitment to the teetering world of awful and fantastic. It is a relationship and like any relationship it does not come easily and it does not come without effort and devotion and time. But I believe it’s a relationship worth staying in.
Things that I must do in the next 24 hours that are making me panic:
I feel such rage and terror and anger inside me. I am tormented by repeated lines in my head. I see them before and want to strangle each sentence. Never before have I so clearly wanted someone to vanish. I don’t wish for their death or anything so rash but for them to have never been of existence in my life. I want them lodged to another state where they’d never be. My mind is constantly reminding myself that at one point for two days I was not enough. That for two days there were lengthy conversations which had once been saved just for me and now they were given to someone else. I was sickened. She is slime to me. She is a temptress batch of betrayal and deceit. Since the beginning of everything she’s been around and has made what could have been a joyous experience one that was filled with anxiety. I am growing to feel hate. I cannot get this blackness out of me. I want people to feel pain and for a long time. It was two days but it was two days too long. For so long she has worked in little ways to make me look bad. I despise her. She is pathetic. I will not stand for this. I don’t know whether to disappear completely or shower love. It’s not that anything was technically betrayal. But instead it was another wicked attempt to lodge herself somewhere cozy in the heart. Something she has tried for so long. I will slaughter her and make her feel like the scum she is to me now. I cannot force a smile on my face when I see her. And it was this manipulative lodging that could appear so innocent, that could fool a man into not thinking anything of it and then one day he tells her his deepest secrets and daily encounters instead of me. It tore me up. It was small talk that only one person deserves. It was a daily report you save for one person you love. And a girl will fool a man into giving her that and create this nest of hope. It was small talk it was catching up but it was a lot of it. It was forceful and evil and evil because it stood as doe when it was a snake. It is evil because it makes the person who is most close feel rotten inside and appear illogical, turning things even more in that wicked snakes favor. I hate her I hate her I hater her.
I want more pen pals.