Today, I was planning on talking about my book that comes out in a week.
I had this whole thing written, how I came to write the book, my fears about taking on the project, the writing process itself, my feelings on the final version, and how the whole process had a purging quality.
But now... no.
In the face of horror, it doesn't feel like any of that really fucking matters, does it?
Part of me feels like I need to say something profound, something to make the pain of this, if not manageable, than at least understandable. Isn't that our job as writers? But I've got nothing.
All I have is the fact that I'm scared and horrified and sad and angry.
Angry beyond fucking words.
That this has happened again.
That our decaying country has let this happen again.
That it seems to insist, in deeds if not words, that this should happen again. Over and over and over.
Part of me didn't even want to write this much.
I know someone is going to come at me and accuse me of making this real life horror Political. But that's bullshit.
Making something Political implies that the topic is divisive.
But, friends, if you think the phrase "Grade Schoolers have a right not to be shot to death in their fucking classroom" is divisive, you and I are on very different trajectories. And it's probably best we go our separate ways.
Something needs to change in this country.
We are sick, and the mercury is rising.
Will we be able to reverse course?
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