I'm getting closer to writing again, maybe out of desperation, maybe out of looking around at my life and thinking something along the lines of what the fuck am I doing? I even sent out submissions of some things last night, partly thanks to Beth for asking me about an essay of mine. It was one of those nice and bleedingly rare moments when you read some of your old work and you don't need to burn it. Burn it? Nay! This exquisite sample of writing should be alongside the Magna Carta under glass, it so precious and necessary. So I sent it out to some places and contests.
I had a second great moment yesterday. After a second or third beer while watching recorded episodes of Angel on television, I stood up and looked around at my apartment. Let's face it. Generally speaking, I am not the happiest of people, nor the most convinced of my accomplishments and potential. But after those several beers and being a little high on the delightfully satisfying storylines mapped out by Joss Whedon, I looked around my apartment and thought, this is mine. I made this. I pay for it. It's all mine. And then I thought, okay, I might be a little cool. Maybe my life can still be awesome.
And I really want to have an awesome life, but every second seems to push that possibility out of my reach. Every second breathes more concrete into my veins and smoke into the vessels running up and down and across my brain. Paralysis is never immediate.