And idk. I have feels. I'm carefully avoiding an existential what-is-my-life sort of crisis here. (I imagine this sort of crisis is pretty common when one is surrounded by people who think they're dying.)
Then I said fuck it, I'm going back to Mars, even if I still suck at science and it's bad Red Mars ripoff fic and there's a major plot decision I can't resolve and two characters that are far too similar. I re-read most of my Nano 2009 demi-novel (from the last time my mom had cancer) and it feels like being reacquainted with old friends. This is soooo not destined to be A Real Novel. My dad asked me if there was, at some point, a way I could make a living with writing. I said maybe? I mean, the question surprised me, and it's not impossible, but let's accept that I am going to waste some time with something that is definitely Not That Thing. But you know, life is hard and I don't want to think about the future and I want to go to space with a bunch of misfits who would never actually pass the psych screenings. And I want to write again like I'm learning to write, practicing, because I found a new font or like the pen or the paper is crisp or I'm bored, instead of being so aware of what I'm good at and what is the best use of my writing time and who will get joy from it and whether or not I'm crazy or dull or wrong. I want to write stories that love me again, so that if I'm ever the only one left in my family, I won't be alone.
I'm sure all that's still in me, somewhere, under years of me smothering it as a backwards way of trying to prove it's really there, but I'm not really asking that much for this project. I just hope I'm lucky enough that something will come out that's absorbing enough to let me get pulled away for a little while.
I would also accept a nice envelope in the mail with a neatly pressed letter inside telling me what I should be with my life to not waste it, and what the next three steps are.