I have read two excellent workshop pieces from my classmates this weekend. They are both fiction pieces; not my genre, and yet I am jealous. I want to have written them. The one, a surreal, funny story about stunted, frustrated young adulthood, and the other a vivid story about an adolescent girl that revolves around horrific violence visited on an animal. The first one, though it is far from fully realized, is weird and compelling and I could probably read it all day, regardless of whether it ultimately has a point or not. The second one is beautiful, and it made me feel sick it upset me so much. It was amazing, and I never want to read it again. Both authors are wonderful writers. techniques dripping from their butt cheeks.

These are not the kinds of things I write, not the kinds of things I have interest in writing. But I am jealous. I want them to be the kinds of things I write, though I also want to continue writing the kinds of things I do write. I want to write all the kinds of things. I want to see all of it, understand everything from every perspective. I don’t want to leave anything for anyone else. I want everything anyone says or thinks to be, technically, a rip-off of my shit. I wouldn’t need anyone to know, I don’t even need to do anything with all of it. I just want to see what everyone else sees, understand the world the way they do.

It sounds exhausting, but what else is there? I’m not doing anything else, anyway. 🤷🏻‍♀️