I forgot how emotionally draining it can be to write fiction. And when I say fiction I am meaning without the erotic. I just completed one of the first just-plain-ol-literary-fiction stories I've written in a long time. And it was rough. In fact, it made me completely grumpy and emotional. Based on a dream I had last week, the story ate away at me until I typed it out. I wanted to turn the images into something completely feminist and something influenced by both Mary Caponegro and Kafka. Something that dealt with gender, love, transformation, appearances, and what it means to be alive. After probably four days or so of writing, I finished it.
There have been some erotic stories I've penned that have taken a lot out of me ("Parker's Mustache," "A Million Camilles," "The Summer of Bobby") but never like this story. I'm not sure what it means. All I know is that finishing it and having my husband read and edit it was completely cathartic and necessary.
Hopefully one day I can find a home for it.