My anxiety has been spiking lately. I’m worried about the piece I just submitted for publication. I don’t worry enough to withdraw my submission, but at that same time it’s the undeniable feeling of standing in your truth.
I worked on the story itself for years and at times felt it was too abstract to be good. But each time I returned to it I saw it take a life of its own. I’ve submitted it before but it got rejected and I was actually very relieved when I found out because it gave me the opportunity to not only polish, but look for what I was trying to say.
I’m no expert writer. But I’m very good at writing pieces that I will find interesting. Or maybe it’s cyclical and I write and read the piece so much I eventually come to appreciate its existence. In the end I suppose that’s better than hating the piece. I can’t say there are drafts that I hate. However, I can say there are pieces out there that I haven’t given the time to fully live, so they’re not always what I want them to be.
The things we create need time to exist in order to become real. And that is not to say that something being un-polished makes it something nonexistent. I am saying that when we love and create, then take the time to learn how to love what we create, we imbue it with a life of its own, whether or not it be a material one; whether or not it be something we want to live.
What a curse it is to have to love yourself—even all the little bits and pieces we wish we could forget.
Love to the same,