Dear Journal,
With all the flailing about of my arms and pointing fingers in rage yesterday, my arms feel sore as if muscles were sprouting out of them.
All morning I felt miserable for saying hurtful things to Pa. I told him he will never play tennis again. I regret that. Then Natasha messaged and I met her for lunch all the time thinking I would treat Ma and Pa at the Backyard Brew.
I'm afraid I have inherited the propensity to spew harsh words just like Ma and Buo. Anger is natural. Restraint is vital.
I came back and thought of hooking Farzan and Natasha up. Let's see how that goes.
Shilpa has stopped working with us, so teaching her never quite kicked off.
I spent an hour reading Stephen King's autobiography or his curriculum vitae as he calls it.
He has divided the writing class into a pyramid: bad writers make the bottom, competent writers make the middle and most of it, and great writers the top. I must be a great writer I thought.
I asked Ma and she said I fall in the competent category. Pa said he thinks I'm great. Ma quipped in: "There should be another category classing the good writers."
Well, so my parents think I'm competent. I guess all the journalism and medicines increased the competence but reduced the risk-taking ability in me. It really did.
Yesterday, Dhawale tried to convince me that Rao is understanding and that I have a drug-induced condition for which I have to take medicines. I cried a lot. These days I cry easily and when I sob I do it with all my battered lungs.
I told Dhawale that I've lost confidence and faith in myself. I don't know if he understood how much.
Anyway, maybe I say and write boring things. The attempt will always be to be a great writer. King also emphasises the importance of practice. Apart from this journal and some poetry, and work of course, I don't write regularly. I must make time to practice. I just must if I want to get anywhere in this field. King drowned himself in writing before his first novel Carrie came out.
Let's see how the day ends. Pa has a knack for skepticism. I hope he can be optimistic about his recovery. I feel guilty for deflating his hopes. I love him. I pray that he will be playing tennis next year.
I am grateful that Pa is playing tennis.
I am grateful for everything.
I am grateful for Stephen King.
I'm grateful for love.
I'm grateful for life.
Love,
Me.
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