If anything, I ought to thank him for inflicting this unspeakable hurt on me. It has resulted in the first complete piece of writing that I have completed since 2008 (I am not even kidding with this ridiculous date). While it is not written like a short story, I think it is still a pretty damn good accomplishment.
The draft is far from perfect and there are some parts that I hate, but it is a complete draft. It feels so amazing. I have forgotten how liberating it is to write. I have missed the sense of unbridled freedom that I feel only when I write. I still can't help but wonder sometimes why I was so afraid failure that I never set my mind to pursuing what is honestly the only thing that I have ever truly loved, which I believe is also the only thing that I'm good at. After I revise it to my satisfaction (will probably take 10 years...), I am going to submit it somewhere and hopefully it gets published somewhere decent.
I have also forgotten how bloody time consuming it is when there's a story burning inside you, dying to get out. The process is almost obsessive. It's lucky that the story is straight forward enough that I could finish it in a timely fashion, and still go out to play tennis (will write about the tennis later today). That means that something had to be sacrificed, and that is unfortunately my sleeping hours. It's almost 1 am. I just spent the last two hours typing out the essay and making changes and trying to fix the tone so that it conveys better my shell shock in the aftermath of the Mark Debacle.
Okay, I am going to bed.