My dad called me on my catastrophizing this morning. I was irritable and tired, but having trouble sleeping–still going through withdrawal, having failed to find a doctor who was willing to treat my EDS.
"Why do you always talk about such dark futures?" he asked.
"I just want to be prepared for the worst," I said defensively.
"Why don't you just do what you can do? You're a writer, so write!"
He's right of course. And I have been writing in between all the complaining. My poems have been rejected from two magazines so far, but are under consideration at three more.
"When will your book be finished?" my father asked.
"Next summer," I said, without missing a beat. Indeed, then or never.
My manuscript is the maturation of my master's thesis, irrevocably altered by all that's befallen me in the past few years.
Part of the spirit of the manuscript has changed, no longer so confident and sure-footed.
Who was Cassiopeia but an arrogant queen whose pride was her destruction?
What is a constellation but in order we impose over something that has an order of its own?
How much power do women have?
That's what the "The Queen Constellation" is about.
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