Dear Self,

Dear Self,
You can’t help but confess to everything. So confess to yourself.

Let’s admit that you’re feeling jealous and inadequate. That despite lovely praise, you feel too weird and strangely off putting to ever get published again. It happens. It’s okay.

I know that it’s really hard to see that you’ve been passed over in favor of authors with actual books and educations. I know that makes you feel what minor? I know you feel like you should just shut your yap, submit to fringe zines that disappear as quickly as they appear. I know.

I know that right now things are not awesome in your head.

You don’t have to give up your subject matter. You don’t have to make anything more accessible to White people. You don’t have to.

Do what you do.

If nobody but you and your girl love it, fuck em. Write it anyway.

Here is what’s going to happen baby. You are going to finish The Book. You are going to write more of your strangely sweet fictions and filthy smut. You are going to be nice to yourself and protect your words. You aren’t mad at them you’re just in a shitty mood this week.

When you get home you are going to have a leisurely poop. Then you are going to play Silent Hill for a little while. Then you are going to soak your fine ass in the bathtub. Bonus points for giving yourself a facial mask. While you’re in the tub you are going to read that other Dennis Cooper book. Extra bonus points for Pantera in your headphones while you bathe.

Be good. You are going to be okay and your writing is going to be your writing.

Some people don’t like it and that’s okay.

You are not sullying all of literature with your words.



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