A folder on her laptop held the stories she was not allowed to publish. One boy forbade her because there was an entire paragraph about his dick size (it was complimentary, she didn’t understand the problem). Another was worried his girlfriend would end up finding it. Another said he would cancel her for invasion of privacy. 

These were rare instances. Mostly boys were flattered, considered it an ego boost, no matter how they were portrayed. People in general liked to be immortalized. In a way, she resented their narcissism, like they couldn’t appreciate what she’d written because they were just staring at themselves.

The truth was whatever reaction the boys offered was not what she wanted, even if they lavished her with praise, called her a genius, it was never enough. She thought of writing as not just a plea to be seen but a plea to be loved. It never seemed to have the effect that she yearned for, probably because it was impossible. Maybe, she thought, if she killed herself then her words would take on a new, heavier meaning.

She used to think that a boy being mad about a story she’d written about him meant the writing had done its job. It touched a nerve; it was controversial and had a direct impact on real life. Then she decided that mindset was banal, stupid. She thought her writing was at its weakest when it was a weapon.

On the internet she stalked a writer she had once done a literary reading with. During the reading he had spoken candidly about his sex addiction, and his girlfriend at the time stomped off. Now he was dating a different writer and they were constantly writing about their relationship, hosting readings where they read about each other with each other, publishing the history of their love in glossy magazines that paid by the word. She felt put off by this masturbatory spectacle. Like she couldn’t imagine anyone caring about it or finding it as anything other than insufferable. She wondered how one could make interesting art if they viewed their life as a project—then isn’t the project about the project, not about life?

But people had made similar criticisms about her work. Maybe they were right, she thought. The folder on her laptop of unpublished stories seemed to tease her. Publish me in a dramatic way, it whispered, or delete me forever. Both enticed her equally. Publishing would be fucked up, it would be devoting herself to art despite the consequences, it would bring her attention; deleting would be a radical act of compassion, it would be deciding that respecting people in her life was more important than her work, it would be like setting fire to her own words and watching them burn into ash.

She closed her laptop and went out to get drunk.