Wow, it’s been less than a week.
I wrote a letter to my paper, and it finally appeared on Saturday. I won’t link to it, since it’s under my “real” name and I like my anonymity, but I’ve been feeling sort of down lately, especially since the shooting in Orlando, and it cheered me up some. Because of this, it’s also a matter of public record that I was born in Maryland rather this backwards hell-hole and I’m not at all embarrassed to say I’m a little proud of that. (And if you really must know, I also kind of like seeing my name in print).
I doubt there’s anyone reading this who can’t be trusted with my real name, but it’s still a publicly searchable website, so…eh. You just never know.
It’s not like publishing fiction, but I worked hard on it anyway and I’m happy other people were able to read it. I also enjoyed being credited as a “guest columnist.” I’m probably blowing this way out of proportion–most likely they publish anyone who knows the difference between a semicolon and a comma–but I don’t care. I’ve been needing a good mood.
I’ve also written two more letters just today, one complaining about football, which I’m not going to send (although I really should :shakefist:), and another that I just sent to the mayor about blood banks. I hear such good things sometimes about what I write, but so often from people who “have to” read it. I wonder how people ignite interest so that people will read things spontaneously. Part of my bad mood, I guess, already there from before Orlando. It’s one thing to hear good things from people who have to look you in the face and know you’ll be hurt if they say anything different. It’s another to have people eating up what you write the way I did with Stephen King and JK Rowling and Kurt Vonnegut. I mean, no, I’m not going to turn into a best-selling author overnight, I just worry that I’m just mediocre. Not bad, you know, just, I guess, uninteresting.
And politics isn’t just a distraction either. It affects me. It means I can’t tell my dad I like boys. It means I have to wonder how people would react if they knew just how different I was. And too much of the time, the answer is “probably very badly.”
So here I am writing letters and ignoring the settings and sequences in my head. Although I did write the better part of some pretty hot gay erotica which I may as well finish. But I think I do have a distraction. I’ve started fantasizing about my setup in a studio that may never come to be, and I think I’m putting off work that I can do now, just because it will be easier or more pleasant or whatever to do it in a different room. Which is silly, and I should stop.
Time to walk the dog.