It is May 3rd.
It is the end of my 2013 spring semester at FSU.
It is also the end of my time in my Creative Fiction Writing course.
This has been one of the most important and influential classes I have ever been enrolled in.
I will sorely miss all that the course has offered me, and all that it will continue to offer me.
I sorely miss it now.
My classmates and I had to put together and turn in portfolios of our writing for a final grade.
The final binder that holds my writing for this course is a weighty object.
As a writer, when a body of your own work is finished and no longer rests in your own two hands, there is this feeling of emptiness and hallowed-outness that overtakes the mind, the heart, and the gut.
In a cyclical fashion, this feeling of emptiness will not cease until another body of work is begun.
The feeling sits there, within the writer, for a time.
And as the knowledge of this passage of time lingers within, so too does the feeling.
Then, it begins to fester.
It begins to stir and cramp up in your stomach.
It is one of the saddest, strangest -- yet completely motivating -- feelings I will ever know.
