Alice Buell Lawrence

I’m a notably high-anxiety person. Comes with the depression. All of which comes with the writing, I think. Creativity seems to have that edge of destruction about it, like how the first rays of sunrise are beautiful and deeply painful on the eyes.

Weekends are when I am the most anxious. Unstructured time is hard, and forcing a structure on it is even harder. I’ve largely given up writing on weekends other than nights when I’m at home. Nights order themselves somehow. But then, I’m a child of the night.

That means the weekends, and especially Saturdays, are perfect for me to edit, to try to smooth and polish and perfect, all the while really just changing and tinkering over and over and over.

I want to get my work out into the world, of course, so I want it to be at its best. I’m preparing to do another round of submissions, so I’ve selected my top seven stories (to me, at least) and am trying to make those shine.

I envy people who don’t have to create sometimes. And at others, like when I look over a passage I’ve written and think that it’s not half-bad, I’m deeply grateful that I create.

Besides, it was cloudy at sunrise this morning.