It has been a year of rejections, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s a sign I’m coming out of my shell. I’ve poured my heart out more than once, to more than one person. And some shied away, some stayed. Maybe, again, I’ve focused on the wrong thing. People stayed.
I’ve lost my appetite for writing fiction. For big metaphors, stunning plot, characterization. It was escapist for me. When so many aspects of reality confronted me this year, I’ve tried to build mysel to confront them. It’s because I want to be more honest in all aspects regarding myself. Say what’s on my mind, do what compels and scares me, and there’s a disconnect between my inner dialogue and my presentation of myself. They need to be reconciled. And the consequence of not? Implosion.