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It's time to let it go

Some of the Clarionites went to the fireworks display, and I believe others went to Liz's house for mass gaming and bbq. I stayed in my dorm room the ENTIRE rest of the day (after an almost six-hour workshop with Swanwick - goddamn, the man wasn't lying when he said he'd work hard for us), and wrote a completely new version of my flash story. Why did I do that? Oh, because I basically freaked out and started second-guessing everything I'd done the first time around. And after I made a ginormous mess of the rewrite, I realized I'd just fucked it up too much, should have left it alone to being with, and now had to suck it up and try to salvage at least the idea, if not the words. And that's what happened. I didn't use a single word in the old piece. It's gone. What's in place is a very condensed, polished reworking of the original story - and guess what? It's even more sexalicious than the first one!

Of course, now I've been sitting here sweating over turning it in tomorrow, thinking that I've gone over the edge, that no one will read it, or worse - they'll read it and then just stare at me in the workshop. Not even say anything, just stare and shake their heads, like you do when you shame dogs that pee on the living room carpet. However, we did workshop a story today that had one of the most explicit alien-on-alien sex scenes I've ever read in my life (and it was quite good!), and no one ran screaming from the room, so clearly this is just a case of my own bullshit paranoia. I need to just turn the story in, and move on to the next one.

Time to critique tomorrow's stories now. Have a happy Fourth, everyone. Have a beer for me. Have FIVE.


Marine Autumn

I owe you marine autumn
With dankness at its roots
and fog like a grape
and the graceful sun of the country;
and the silent space
in which sorrows lose themselves
and only the bright crown
of joy comes to the surface.

--Pablo Neruda.

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