?
.
fuck.
I went through some of my older short stories today.
(It is a cold and rainy sort of day. The kind that you fall in love with for a few minutes and end up cursing for hours. )
I ended up throwing out a lot of the stories. Some of them were too confusing, others had no real direction and the rest just plain sucked. It is weird sorting through stories that I once thought were wonderful but now find embarrassing. I wonder if this happens with other sorts of art forms- do painters always love their work? Photographers never cringe at their pictures? Maybe writers will always be slightly insecure. Or maybe that is just me. It doesn't matter how many times I get published or how many people tell me they love what I do. I will always question it and try to do something a little better the next time. A little different.
I got some worrying medical news regarding my pregnancy. Well, I suppose it isn't news as the doctor only told me what I was told before. My daughter will be fine but I may not. I was told, nicely, to think about who I would want to care for my daughter in the event that I "passed away" (It is okay, Mr. Doctor. You can say death.) I've only told 1 person about this in my "real" day to day life. I haven't even told her father. It was curious. I felt as if I should have fear or that I should break down crying but I didn't. I listened, talked back and went home. When I got home I went through my stories. I wondered why I kept so much crap around. Why did I convince myself I would like it? That I would use it? I would need it? I should have concentrated on what was good, not on hoarding all this crap.
I should have done the same in my own life. I still should. There is no point in keeping the crap that drags you down. There is no point in holding hands with those that aren't good for you. There is just no point in it.
I don't know what will happen. I don't know. But I do know that I'm not just going to stop at throwing out crappy stories.
?
.
.
fuck.
I went through some of my older short stories today.
(It is a cold and rainy sort of day. The kind that you fall in love with for a few minutes and end up cursing for hours. )
I ended up throwing out a lot of the stories. Some of them were too confusing, others had no real direction and the rest just plain sucked. It is weird sorting through stories that I once thought were wonderful but now find embarrassing. I wonder if this happens with other sorts of art forms- do painters always love their work? Photographers never cringe at their pictures? Maybe writers will always be slightly insecure. Or maybe that is just me. It doesn't matter how many times I get published or how many people tell me they love what I do. I will always question it and try to do something a little better the next time. A little different.
I got some worrying medical news regarding my pregnancy. Well, I suppose it isn't news as the doctor only told me what I was told before. My daughter will be fine but I may not. I was told, nicely, to think about who I would want to care for my daughter in the event that I "passed away" (It is okay, Mr. Doctor. You can say death.) I've only told 1 person about this in my "real" day to day life. I haven't even told her father. It was curious. I felt as if I should have fear or that I should break down crying but I didn't. I listened, talked back and went home. When I got home I went through my stories. I wondered why I kept so much crap around. Why did I convince myself I would like it? That I would use it? I would need it? I should have concentrated on what was good, not on hoarding all this crap.
I should have done the same in my own life. I still should. There is no point in keeping the crap that drags you down. There is no point in holding hands with those that aren't good for you. There is just no point in it.
I don't know what will happen. I don't know. But I do know that I'm not just going to stop at throwing out crappy stories.
?
.
It's not an easy thing to be told you're going to die. You feel like your doctor was too soft, saying "passed away." My doctor seemed pretty cold telling me "you will die." I've been on the other end too, having to tell a family that their loved one just died and I, the one person who was supposed to be there to save him or her, could do nothing about it. There's just no easy way to say it or to hear it. No right way, either. It just is.