Today is one of those days that I have to remind myself that writers must write. I’ve long since abandoned the necessity to be inspired, and therefore have a plethora of unpublished material. This year, though I planned to enter the Boston Review short story contest, I wasn’t satisfied with my progress, so I’m looking at other options. Of course, my goal is still to become published. Though I could have pulled a Hail Mary and entered it, I think I started falling flat and losing my way. I suffer from being my own worse critic.
That being said, I didn’t let “not so great” ideas stop me. My project has its own fair share of “so not gonna use that” in it, but it has a whole lot of good. Good enough that I won’t let it fall by the wayside, and I know it can be a catalyst to something more for me.
It’s not that I don’t have a whole lot to talk about: I’m a single, black woman raising two children in the United States; the topics are endless. But tonight, I just wanted to be who I was. I’m not any one thing, but more than all others, I’m a writer that still struggling to find her rhythm everywhere, but didn’t want to leave you guys hanging.