It’s funny how people can say such lovely things to me about my writing, and I will still end up feeling so profoundly unsafe.

I don’t know, I think it hurts me to be misunderstood, or misinterpreted. I often feel foolish for caring so much about this one, silly thing. They’re just stories. They’re just for fun, so why are you taking it so seriously?

I don’t know. But the thing that makes me take it so seriously is probably the thing that makes me write so much. I care a lot. I am trying very hard to say true things in order to satisfy myself.

Sometimes I want to run away, when I feel like this. Drag all my little feelers back inside the shell, keep writing, maybe even sending out little messages in glass bottles, but in a way where the return response will never reach me.

That sounds awfully lonely, even to me. I doubt I’d like it very much for very long. I’m sure I’d get lonely.

But some nights I feel alone anyway, so what do we have to say about that?