a substantial piece of wood fell off the truck barreling through the yellow light into the middle of the very busy road. having just cast my midterm election vote and having just had a battery of car issues, i allowed the patriotic duty in me to well up. at that very moment, all traffic lights blinked red affording me the safety to dart into the road and pull the wood out of the road and over to the sidewalk.
the driver may have been oblivious to the side effects of his insane driving, but i was not.
at class last night, many people were absent, which placed the responsibility of delivering feedback on me. it’s a delicate thing to bite your tongue and give honest constructive criticism at the same time. it’s a difficult thing to look past the obvious barriers in language to the story underneath. and yet, why is it so much easier to do all of that than write your own story? why am i trying to write a story? revise a novel? for what purpose? when do you forge ahead and when do you tuck your work into that dark corner of your heart never to be seen again? what does the breaking point look like? is it better to be aware of your surroundings or should you barrel through the intersection, things flying out of the back of your truck/mind?