Member-only story
Story Let Down
I feel blue when I finish a story
I’ve spent days thinking about the story I just wrote. I spent hours writing and rewriting. Honing and refining. Changing my mind and changing it back again. I agonized over the subject matter. Is it too honest, too raw? Is it not raw enough? (Am I too vulnerable?)
I labored over style and consistency of language. Checked and rechecked spelling, grammar, and sentence structure. Are my tenses correct? Do my sentences have rhythm? Am I overthinking this? (Am I too vulnerable?)
I spend long, painful hours trying to write a feeling. Trying to get my meaning across. Trying to figure out what I mean. Am I explaining this well? Is this what I mean? Do I even know what I am trying to say? (Am I too vulnerable?)
I spend far too long drafting and redrafting in longhand. Crossing out entire paragraphs and switching notebooks. Starting over. But I finally finish. Is it finished? Have I said enough? Have I said too much? (Am I too vulnerable?)
My hand hurts and my fingers are numb from all that writing, but it was cathartic. I’m finished with that part of the story. I haven’t begun to transcribe it. I wander from room to room feeling empty. Something is missing. Am I hungry? Am I sleepy or sad? (Am I too vulnerable?)
I am blue. I miss my story. I miss my agony. Without it, I am too vulnerable.
