a note on this fear: I completed not only my first story, but also was asked to be featured in the class critiqued by the professor, and quite literally made someone cry from it (though that was highly mortifying and unintentional). that’s a response I never expected. I also never expected to love the class so much – it is the only one that I consistently look forward to every week, and I feel both responsible and capable in it – like I know what I am doing. Writing and reading has become this one fixed point in the kind of cyclonic clusterfuck that has become my life in the past week or so. Like it’s the only point in my day that I can truly relax between the insanity of the city, the frustration of the school, and the drama of the apartment. Maybe it is something I should think about seriously continuing?