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literaryimmortalityI can't figure out what the hell I'm doing in this place. I ask so many questions but wind up back where I've started, my arrival here not any one person's fault like my awakening on the Avalon but rather something magical, mysterious.
I could spend my whole life here trying to figure out why I'm here, but I know there has to be more than that. At least, that's the conclusion I reached when I was on the ship and I don't see why it should be any different now.
So I start swimming again, and then running. I run until my chest hurts and I swim until my arms go weak. I wake up early for sunrises because it's been so long since I've seen them from an Earth-like sky. I drink coffee. I try to write.
But I don't know what to write about. When I thought I'd never meet another person again, I started to write about myself. My life and my struggle. My fury. Here, it's not so easy. There are so many other things, so many other people and they've all led much more meaningful lives. I want to write about them but I don't know where or how to start.
Nobody knows who Aurora Lane is here. Nobody's heard of my father. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I get to start again – and wasn't that the idea of going to Homestead II, anyway?
There are a few publishers in town that I put in calls with and hear nothing from. That's nothing new. Writing is rejection, over and over again. If I gave up every time someone didn't want to read my writing or put it out there for the masses, well.
I wouldn't have been writing for the New Yorker.
I decide on a new approach. Face to face. It's still overwhelming conversing with so many people and being surrounded by the chaos of crowds, but it's getting easier. I make my way to a local newspaper with my resume in hand though it hasn't gotten me very far, speaking briefly with a receptionist who says she can't guarantee a meeting but she'll see what she can do.
I find a seat and wait. That's one thing I've gotten good at.
I could spend my whole life here trying to figure out why I'm here, but I know there has to be more than that. At least, that's the conclusion I reached when I was on the ship and I don't see why it should be any different now.
So I start swimming again, and then running. I run until my chest hurts and I swim until my arms go weak. I wake up early for sunrises because it's been so long since I've seen them from an Earth-like sky. I drink coffee. I try to write.
But I don't know what to write about. When I thought I'd never meet another person again, I started to write about myself. My life and my struggle. My fury. Here, it's not so easy. There are so many other things, so many other people and they've all led much more meaningful lives. I want to write about them but I don't know where or how to start.
Nobody knows who Aurora Lane is here. Nobody's heard of my father. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I get to start again – and wasn't that the idea of going to Homestead II, anyway?
There are a few publishers in town that I put in calls with and hear nothing from. That's nothing new. Writing is rejection, over and over again. If I gave up every time someone didn't want to read my writing or put it out there for the masses, well.
I wouldn't have been writing for the New Yorker.
I decide on a new approach. Face to face. It's still overwhelming conversing with so many people and being surrounded by the chaos of crowds, but it's getting easier. I make my way to a local newspaper with my resume in hand though it hasn't gotten me very far, speaking briefly with a receptionist who says she can't guarantee a meeting but she'll see what she can do.
I find a seat and wait. That's one thing I've gotten good at.
