I've never been convinced I'm any good at writing fiction, and yet I feel compelled to do it. My suspicions that I might actually really suck at it escalated when I applied to MFA programs last winter and was soundly rejected by all eight.
I'm also not convinced, because I'm not a serious literary talent who really has something new to say, that spending my time writing about the lives and loves of people who exist only in my mind is something to which I should dedicate much time. And yet, I do it. I've always done it.
post-storm rainbow, view from Roe Boulevard, 6-16-10
For about two years I've been writing and re-writing the story, waiting for it to be "good enough," whatever that means. Then yesterday I was driving down 69 Highway* on the tail end of a storm with the air humid and electric, and I realized fuck it, I'm free. So in the spirit of fucking it, I posted the damn story. I got nothing to lose either way.
*Apparently saying "69 Highway" instead of "Highway 69" is a Kansas City thing. I didn't know this until my boyfriend pointed out that it was severely annoying (or he might not have been so harsh; he might have just called it "weird"). In any case, he was right (see "local navigation tips").