Some of you may or may not know - I'm thinking about writing a book. It's a collection of short stories. My biggest issues are these: 1) most of my writing is more essay size than short story size; 2) most of my writing is so intimate that it would be frightening to think of it being in the public eye; 3) A lot of my writing thus far has been too erotic for mass public consumption.
Well, I'm still thinking about it. Gym is actually binding some of my poetry into book form for me, which thrills me mightily, but I truly do not believe the things that he's binding are publishable. The short stories might be. I've been going through my journal, a little bit at a time, marking the ones I like best as "The Collection". The ones to which I'm giving the most serious consideration, regarding possible publication. Having a friend who has negotiated this doesn't actually make it easier, it makes it harder. She has some very strong opinions about self-publication and about short stories, but she does seem to believe my writing is good enough to be published.
All in all, it's an intimidating prospect.
And I said all that to say this - I was reading through my journal, and came across this entry. It is far too personal to make it into a book (although I might consider fictionalizing it) But I wanted to repost it. It's been a year, and it still makes me cry. Of course, everything made me cry today, because the dipshit hurt my feelings again. Still, here it is:
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