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Past midnight and I’ve spent the better part of the last couple hours in tears. Not what you think. At least, not entirely. I just watched The Last Song, with Miley Cyrus. It was fantastic. Sobbed. Me and the other 20,000 girls in the theater. I went by myself. I’m glad I did. I didn’t have to worry about the other person staring as I cried. It was a great story, very touching. Very human, very real. As with everything Nicholas Sparks ever touches, it was about love and death and loss. The three things that seem to rule my life—or at least motivate most of my life.

I don’t know what my future holds. Maybe I will fall in love again to stay. Maybe I won’t. Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he won’t. Maybe one of my novels will get published. Maybe none ever will. There could be much more financial trouble in the future. There could be diseases. There could be much tragedy. There might even been health, love, and happiness. At least for a long time. I hope so. The thing that I am rarely okay with, I am okay with at the moment—and probably only for a moment. My life is my life. It’s my story. My novel. Even if no one ever reads it. Page by page it continues. Kiss by kiss. Tear by tear. In this moment. I can see the beauty in that. It is an aching type of beauty, but a beauty, nonetheless.

On a fun note, I got my first paying writing gig tonight. $200! I am interviewing a gay man who has helped out in Haiti for the past several years. I will then write his story in twelve hundred words or so. It’s due next Friday. It will be published in a local gay magazine. I know it’s not much, and, who knows how the interview will go or how the writing will go, so I shouldn’t count my chickens, but I can’t help but be excited. I can actually say I’ve been published somewhere—even if no one has ever heard of it. It’s definitely not what I normally write, or have ever written for that matter, but that will be kinda fun in and of itself. It makes me a touch nervous, because the owner of the magazine, who asked me to write it, has never read my writing. He has only heard that I am a good writer from a mutual friend who reads my blog occasionally. I have a problem with people telling me that I’m a good writer from my blog. I rarely do anything creative or artistic with the blog—it is all some whiny twelve year old girl crying about how sad and unfair life is... boo hoo. The things I write in hopes of publication are nothing like this. So, someone who actually likes this blog may end up hating my other writing. They are nothing alike. However, I was too thrilled to turn such an offer down for fear of giving him something he won’t like. I will do my best to somehow capture the subject of the article while maintaining my voice as a writer. We’ll see how that goes.