Yes, or at least some version of it, since life is a little bit crazy right now and 50k seems pretty impossible this time around
People lie to you. They say that writing is catharsis—people say they write because words make sense, because sound fills the dark and text fills the page, plugs emptiness like a stopper in a drain. And they say that death is the kind of emptiness that we need to fill, need to scratch up with words and colors and movements, need to prove that we are still alive, still something, still—
But none of that makes sense. Not when you’ve slept four hours a night for the last week and you spent last Sunday crying into the sleeve of your friend, and feeling the weight of winter already settling in, and then especially not when your writing professor dies on Monday afternoon twenty-four hours before your seminar that she teaches is supposed to meet. Not when you’re the one who has to coordinate the news coverage for the story. When you edit her obituary six hours after the death.
Not when you go to the class the next day and all of these people are around you, they’re breaking apart, nothing like that at all, what the hell are you doing, what is anyone doing, why is the university chaplain sitting with the twelve of you like she can do anything, what are the things that matter anymore? There is a quiet grace in this, but it doesn’t mean anything. These things don’t happen. They aren’t supposed to.