I've been in a place of stasis lately. Two months ago I thought my life would be going in one direction, and two weeks ago I started realizing that it's not. A few hours ago I snipped off the final threads connecting me to that other future self, and despite having no real guarantees that my new direction will get me anywhere golden, I'm feeling strangely unafraid. 

One day I'll probably fall hard enough to seriously reconsider my bridge-burning policy, but that day is not today.

Since Clarion West, I've been doing a lot of revising, both of stories that I wrote during my six weeks in Seattle and of older projects, and I realized something. While at CW, I tried for the most part to venture into unknown territories, writing worlds and characters and situations that I'd never considered before.  It was fun, and I came up with a lot of material that I rather like, but it was missing something. And it was like I'd forgotten why I write.

Someone told me once, You're not a god. You're just a biographer.

I write because I'm madly in love with people inside my head and want everyone else to fall in love with them, too. It's selfish and unreasoning and probably fits someone's definition of insane, but there it is.

It's the obsession that makes a palpable difference, those hours and days and weeks I spend sharing my headspace with other voices, relinquishing whatever sense of self I have left, seeing my world only through the filter of the work. 

It's what makes everything else feel like little more than a writing exercise.

It's also what has left me wracked with crippling self-doubt. These are the important stories, the ones that matter, and I'm just not good enough to do them justice. And I won't be good enough unless I write, so I work on other things to practice, but everything else feels empty so I don't care, et cetera, ad nauseam aaarrrgghh


entry title from Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"