“Stay angry, little Meg,” Mrs. Whatsit whispered. “You will need all your anger now.”
–Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time
I want to talk about anger. Well, not really. I’d actually like to talk about unicorns or salted caramel frappucinos (the poor overlooked stepsister of the pumpkin spice latte) or lavender chamomile pillow mist because it is the best invention of all time.
But every time I put my fingers on the keyboard all that seems to come out is anger. With every passing day, the space inside me for unicorns, frappucinos, and lavender chamomile shrinks, while my capacity for pure, incandescent fury only seems to grow and grow.
You know that old writing advice, to write what you know? Well, this is what I know. I know that we all hold a universe inside ourselves, with emotions as scattered and varied as the stars. I know that sometimes those stars shoot through us with celestial splendor. And sometimes those stars collapse into an all-consuming black hole.