c’est la vie.

i want to talk about realistic writing expectations, and how i don’t have any. i bite off more than i can chew, or adversely find underwhelming writing tasks to pursue. i edit, re-edit, and edit again just to be able to type a paragraph now, and by the time i'm ready to publish, i feel drained. i need to come back down to earth.

which leads me to a very strange announcement: i decided i’m writing a book. i know that doesn’t seem to add up at all, does it? but i really am writing a book, and i am not going to get excited about it. i’m actually giddy about it, to be honest. but if i get excited, i’ll love it too much, and the love will rush it and smother it to death. i need to work slowly. i need to put all of my thoughts back together again. i have to relive so much of my life to write these pages. i cannot hold myself to expectations or deadlines. if this takes me years to write, then c’est la vie. it will simply be done whenever i finish it.

so maybe i shouldn’t call it a book? maybe i should call it a creative writing project. whatever it should be called, it’s happening. and it isn’t being typed either! it’s already begun in notebooks that are scattered around my room (which may prove to be a fatal mistake later). but it’s better to write on paper for now at least, because when i type, it’s too tempting to hit the backspace.

so what is the book about?

love.