to be honest this project has become hard and i’m not entirely sure why.
It’s difficult to evaluate a situation when you’re in the middle of it, like when everything is on fire, you know that everything is on fire, but you might not know why yet, that it was old Mrs Henderblurgh falling asleep with a cigarette in her bed. That is a massively melodramatic metaphor, but my point still stands. This project has become hard. I don’t believe in writer’s block – i’ve never sat down and not been able to write what I want. But in this case, it’s not so much that I’m sitting down and not being able to produce the words, it’s that the project feels like it doesn’t want to be written. There’s a sense of finality to the experiment – I went overseas and I met my internet friends and they transmogrified into real person friends and that’s that. The process seems so normal, it almost seems unremarkable. Not that they’re unremarkable, just that they’ve become a more coherent part of my life, a more private part. Before this, they existed only on social medias and websites. They seemed part of the world, partly owned by everyone. Now they are like the majority of my friends, folded into a more private seam of my life. Now that I’ve written about meeting them, it’s difficult to write beyond that.
or perhaps it is because my confidence was shaken quite severely after I received some feedback from one of the stories I posted, which upset its recipient. It was all resolved, it was all as honest as mistakes can be, but it made me second guess the practice of writing about other people, about filtering a life into a story. It made me remember the heady days of fiction, where nobody can be hurt because it’s all make believe, all untrue.
But the best way to solve things like this is to write through them, and write about them, so I’ll just keep writing and see what happens.