it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken
matociquala

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There's a plain white box in my living room.

It's two and a half inches tall, eight and three-quarters inches wide, and eleven and a quarter inches long. Inside of it is nearly a full ream of paper and most of a black ink cartridge. It has my address in the corner and Jenn's address in the middle, and tomorrow it goes out in quest of a home and people who will love it and raise it up right.

Since January first I've revised three novel-length manuscripts, and now I'm sending one of them out into the world. I have two current projects clamoring for my attention, and mostly what I feel (between pokes from the guilt monkey) is like my head has been scoured out with brillo pads. If the damned guilt monkey would leave me alone, I might get some rest.

I am starting to feel like a real writer, I think. Which is scary. Because in the living room there's a plain white manuscript box that I kinda feel has "here's the very best I can do," in it.

It's intimidating.
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