I am getting tired of all the memory fragments and semi-autobiographical fiction I have been writing lately. It's been cathartic to get all these thoughts out of my head and give them concrete shape, but I now feel like a drunk after a weekend bender, or a kid who has eaten way too much birthday cake, empachada.
I have gazed at my navel too long lately; my neck hurts.
I reread some of my most recent "writing" posts. I think the Persephone story is my favorite, because it's got some humor in it and it's not about me. The others have been necessary stops in my renewed quest as an aspiring writer, but I want no part of them anymore. From now on I am on a self-imposed ban from writing about anything that happened in my life from 1990 to 1999. It's time to find something else to write about.
I have enjoyed the comments very much, though. It's been great to know that my experiences as retold have resonated with some and moved others to leave their words of support and encouragement. I have always thought my life was pretty boring and ordinary, but it is good to know that even an ordinary life can move a reader. It's an incentive to continue writing.
To those who have graciously admired my strength, let me assure you I don't have all the answers. Sometimes I am a scaredy-cat; and I have been known to be a worrier. More importantly, I have stumbled and made my share of mistakes in life. I am mercurial in nature, and what these terse and succinct memories entries are missing are all the freak outs, screaming matches and pouring-cold-water-over-my-head moments.