I’ll Never Write Again

It’s a trauma response, I think, to always want to completely obliterate my dreams when misfortune strikes. My partner is so used to it that by now, they just let it run its course. Big rejection? All of my awards go into a closet. Writing group didn’t work out? Bury my entire catalog of ideas into a folder named “crap.” I will delete posts or whole social media accounts, no problem. I always say: “I’ll never write again,” and sometimes my destruction works too well. I’ve lost stories, chapters, poems. Those worth saving stick around no matter how many times I push them off.

I’ve always wanted to be the one who struck first, to be the rejector. Maybe it’s why I love horror because, through horror, I can control the bad shit happening to me. I am ready. If I don’t trust, its easier to let go. Granted, it limits me from some key experiences. Give me the pathetic illusion that there is an option for my pain. If someone doesn’t like me, I can always walk away. If I don’t do well, I can always give up. If people laugh at me, I can give them something to laugh at. I always have the upper hand, and am never caught unawares.

I’ll never write again — HA, take that! (Except, of course, I will. And it will hurt. It will hurt a lot.)