The Banal, Narcissistic Auto-Cannibalism of Writing About Writing: Part II

Dear Reader,

Here we are, again. I am spiraling in an existential vortex, the same words ringing around my head like church bells at noon:

Why am I the way I am?

And more importantly:

How dare I?

Quick recap: I am soon going to post a reflection about Fearful Flash Fiction where I discuss what the project meant to me, what I learned, blah blah blah. I’m literally writing a reflection about my own writing.

Really? Is this is how I’m spending my time?

Here’s the cold, hard truth: If I couldn’t get something across in the original story, then I failed at that something. I can’t go back and tell people how to read what I write. How self-involved is that? To think that I know better than my own reader.

Again, how dare I?

And again again, why am I the way I am?

Why can’t I just let what I write be what it is, good or bad? Why do I feel this incessant, nagging need to apologize for it, to explain it?

Beyond that, where am I getting the authority to do this? It’s been a week since the project ended, I am no wiser now than I was then. There have been no life-shattering revelations about the purpose of writing, no big ah-ha moments where I had a breakthrough in self-analysis. Nothing has changed.

That’s why we’re here right now. I am about to embark on a piece basically congratulating myself for being ~so deep~. Ew.

The problem with diving into emotionally invested writing is that you’re emotionally invested. After finishing every story in FFF, I felt like a freaking revolutionary. But in reality, nothing I’m doing hasn’t been done before.

I need to get real, and sit in my own mediocrity for a hot second. Not all these stories are good. Some are bad. Some are OK. None are ground breaking.

The thing is, I can rail against myself all I want here. I’m still gonna write that reflection.

At least now, I have acknowledged what a ridiculous human being I am for doing it.

A Writer Who is Avoiding Doing Real Work in Favor of Preemptively Bashing Herself
(Also Her Blood is Coffee)

P.S. I am now doubly annoyed with myself, because I re-read The Banal, Narcissistic Auto-Cannibalism of Writing about Writing: Part Iand I think it’s better than this Part II. And now I’ve just written that.
Anyone else feeling the irony here? No? Just me?
Lordy. I never learn.

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