Sometimes I step back and look at my life and I can hardly believe that I am the person living it. I pulled out the keys to my office, and it was a tough day at my office. I had 8 hours of class and another 4 hours of reading. I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. I felt like a grownup. I felt like someone getting ahead by using their head. Rick Moody came for a special guest famous author workshop. The man who wrote The Ice Storm said to me, “I really liked your story. After another draft or two you should try to publish this.”
It felt really good for about 9 seconds, and then I said something way too personal, and then more stuff like that to try to cover up the first thing, and now that thing just echoes in my head over and over and drowns out everything else.
Earlier this year, I got a story published in The Meridian and I was excited. Then I became embarrassed, got drunk at the bar and blew 60 dollars at the poker table in as many minutes. That showed me a thing or two about feeling good. If this were the middle ages I’d be one of the nutbars who think they can make the plague go away by whipping themselves. I am that type.
I mean, don’t feel sorry for me. It’s fine; I’m sure it will be fine. I just wish I could break out of this uncomfortable cycle I find myself in. Lately I am either: 1. saying something. 2. mortified by the thing I just said.
I’ll work it out. Thanks for reading.