I am at a party, sitting in the middle of someone’s bedroom floor, holding a plastic cup and crying, because being a writer is a lovely, terrible thing, and I cannot articulate, to myself or anyone else, why I want so badly for my stories to be read by others. They are, maybe, nice art. But I sob and wave my fingers around as I struggle to explain what value my writing, my writing, adds to the world.
My friend rubs my back and tells me, “Maybe that’s why you get published. So someone else can tell you that your writing has value. Since, you know, you clearly don’t believe me when I tell you it does.”
Reclining in a black box theater, I watch a drama student mouth the words of my one-act play, Meatless, a thirty-minute farce about the factory farming industry. After the play is…
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