How many people have I written about in a spat of scorched earth? How many memories have I molded, twisted, and tossed into a work barely disguised to fit my narrative? Could I risk that, with my spouse, now, our little life together, my healing so important to me?
We eventually found ourselves back in Echo Park—broke, lonely, and gay. As these codependent friendships go, we were destined for an end, or a pause. Night after night of drinking and feeling like losers started to wear on us.
It was a day of peaceful but powerful protest and people power. In this author and protest attendee’s opinion, police escalation of hostility was what sparked the violent clashes as the sun went down.
Your virtual composite of who you want to be and what you are looking for, your “I’m a straight male, 30s, seeking short term and long term relationships and friends” — I see peppered with us, our memories.
I wouldn’t say that my love for Emily was romantic, but it was not entirely platonic either. I loved her like you can only love your childhood best friends. Some combination of sisterhood and friendship with a dash of romantic love tossed in to confuse things.
My crisis of writing and publishing stems from writing the darkest and most horrific parts of my life, without having processed them, publishing in soon-defunct literary magazines with little to no audience, and getting eight likes on social media as payment. Is this what I should turn myself inside out for?