thanksgiving

and, of course, writing

To celebrate the holiday, I’ve been editing college essays and writing a novel and writing in my journal because I don’t know how to say no to people, not even myself.

A while back, I wrote a poem that took place on Thanksgiving. Editors never picked it up, so I dropped it. Because I associate their opinion with the poem’s worth, which means I associate it with my own worth. Them not saying anything about the poem - not even a “hey, this is jack shit!” - is almost worse. Definitely worse.

Before that, though, I thought it was the best thing I’d ever written. Probably because I was terrified by it. I’ve never been more vulnerable, more brusquely blunt. It’s jarring, but also real, because jarring and real things often go hand-in-hand. Because, in some ways, they have to.

Maybe it’s a blessing, something to be grateful for, that it never got published. Maybe, today, after I edit the college essays and write my own novel and write in my journal and finish writing this, I’ll return to the poem. Take a steak knife and cut away at it—which, you’ll see is ironic, if you ever get to read it. You probably won’t. Maybe you will.

Until then, happy Thanksgiving. I’m grateful for all of you, especially those who have joined over the past few days. And to those who’ve been here for some time: thank you, always, for staying. I love you all dearly.