Writing in 2017, Part II

2017 was a difficult, depressing year, but sometimes when you’ve been through possibly the worst time(s) of your life and emerged on the other side, everything else feels relatively pale. So, let’s say 2017 was a relatively pale year.

In January, I moved to New York.

In March, I published an article in Uncanny Magazine.

(In April, I acquired a new therapist.)

In June, I became a fellow at the New York Foundation for the Arts.

(In July, I turned 30.)

In August, Luminescent Threads came out, a book that I co-edited with Alexandra Pierce of Twelfth Planet Press.

In September, I started working as the Poetry and Reprints Editor of Uncanny Magazine.

In October, I had my first New York reading at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, one of the two largest branches of the NYPL.

In November, I published an article in Words Without Borders.

In December, in a few more days, I will have a small story published in Anathema Magazine.

In between, bleakness, writing, occasional pleasure, entirely too many cigarettes. The political situations of both India and the United States get worse every day than I have ever known in my life. (In India, I was born a few years after the Emergency, and was too young during Babri Masjid. I was still too young during the Kargil War, and actually considered it a positive thing.)

I am darker, angrier, wearier than I have ever been before. I channel my obsessive streak into reading the news for hours, and still never catch up with all the horrors sprouting everywhere, every minute.

My heart, that overused organ, has been put to cryosleep. The only thing that stirs it up any more is the occasional nightmare.

I feel like an animal, which isn’t fantastic, but preferable to feeling like a corpse.

What else? New York is cold and I like where I’m living, but Clinton Street is many miles from here, in Lower Manhattan, too far for the music to waft in.

I am getting by. I am thankful for the sunshine on my face, the kindness of strangers — all that has come my way since the time I tried to commit suicide in 2015. I am living on borrowed time and grace. Everything is a miracle. All of you reading this (or not).

The world will get better, I promise. We will live to see it together.

 

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4 thoughts on “Writing in 2017, Part II

  1. Okay, I’ve held off on this for some time (three or so days), but received another ping from you, again.
    I have to point this out: once might’ve been a mistake, twice can be taken as the same, thrice was you poking at a friend who had nothing to do with this (and egged into a yelling match, after insulting her), Fourth: was yet ANOTHER ping.
    Now, I’m considering you to be stalking me. Especially considering this is the sixth such instance, even after I told you it wasn’t welcome (the exchange you seem to have deleted).

    The last time I pointed this out, you were fine. Considering you’ve shared every subsequent post with my mum, the woman you hilariously wanted me to “kill”, and a ton of other others, I think you’re reaching.

    I requested you to never message me again. You have been violating that. How you keep pinging me is what I want to know. I’ve had enough of you showing up every few months on my emails.

    I’ll say this as politely as I can. I do NOT WANT TO HEAR YOUR BULLSHIT AGAIN.
    Lie to your people. Not to me or mine. And never make up bullshit about mine, either.
    Me? I don’t really care. That’s something you seem to have made a profession off.

    • *sigh* Will you keep trolling every post I make for eternity? Because you’re not going to succeed in trolling me away from my own blog. Do your worst. :)

Express. Engage. Etcetera.

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