Wrung out.

Recently I wrote a tiny story about and narrated by a dog.

I’m working on a story now with a rather strange man and woman. It’s kind of a love story maybe.

All this in addition to trying to finish The. Book.

I thought that putting together this essay project would be as easy as blogging since that is my primary audience. Fucking A Odin Take the Fucking Wheel I was dead ass wrong.

I am not quite done with new original essays and I feel wrung out in a painful yet pleasing way. Some of the new essays are kind of gut wrenching to read and write.

If I ever do this again on any kind of larger scale I’m going to have to work differently. I would have to take fewer hours at work or something because working the day job and getting this done isn’t working out in an optimal fashion.

It hurts but it feels good.

I’ve also learned that fundraising is just not my forte. I try but I feel weird and creepy about it. I don’t want to bother people who will most likely not buy my book.

Growth hurts, change hurts. Creating something I care about so much hurts like a bitch.

All this fear and pain is exhilarating. I like this far better than when I tried writing groups. I have learned so much in this process.

Yesterday I finished two essays and today I’m doing more fiction. I can’t dig so hard at myself today, I feel too raw as it is. Frayed nerves and lingering rage from an earlier subtle racism flavored incident on the bus. So is the life of a Black girl in Seattle sometimes.

One little confession. Sometimes I wish I had more lines on my face. I wish my skin reflected my years of drugging and not taking care of it or my smoking. I think if I didn’t look so young and sweet faced people wouldn’t be so apt to say stupid fucking things to me.

That’s all. I have to get back to work.

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