I am in need of a good kick in the pants. I thought, for some moments, that this weekend might be it: I ran into a fellow graduate of my MFA program and we talked about regrets before a row of sinks in the bathrooms. She had some, though she didn’t like to use the word. Neither of us had reached the attainable dream—it had seemed so attainable back then, how misguided we were!—of being a published novelist by now. She had moved on. I realize, looking back on our conversation, that she may have assumed I’ve given up. I haven’t given up! Not even close!
I felt a touch motivated after the meeting. And then, the next morning, it all fell away and I didn’t get much done. I kept going between stories—tweaking something here, slipping in a new line there—unable to just roll up my sleeves and commit.
I should try something new today. I shouldn’t be afraid to fail. I should throw out my Airport card so I can’t connect to the Internet. I should—oh, the advice swims in my head. I just have to remember why I’m here: like that guy in the Memento movie had tattooed his reasons all over his chest. Where did I put mine?