I have been writing a lot it is making me feel really good, like I am finally writing almost as well as my ability is, like I can tell immediately if a story is working or not, like I can edit my own pieces quickly and don’t have to wait a month or have someone else tell me what is wrong in order to figure out what is wrong. That’s another way MFAs fuck you up: they trick you into thinking something is always intrinsically wrong with your stories, and you can’t shape them up on your own.
Every few years, the ocean pushes too much sand into the opening of the lagoon, and the lagoon waters can’t fall back with the tide, and then the lagoon becomes full and flat like a lake. There are bugs everywhere: gnats, mosquitoes, flies. I’ve killed one mosquito and two fly thingies since I got home an hour ago. I stepped into two clouds of gnats today while making the three-minute walk between my mother and father’s houses. On Sunday, my mother and I took the dog to the beach, and there were thousands of flies in the sand. They collected over the kelp, sometimes in bunches that made it look as though the kelp wasn’t kelp at all, and instead a writhing and frantic black mess. I keep on feeling the bugs in my mouth, my eyes, my ears. I imagine them laying eggs in my ear canal. I think about all of them collecting in a mush in my stomach, because I swallowed them, drowning and then floating in the bile.
They took an excavator last night and dug the sand blocking the lagoon out. Now the water has receded, and the reeds look frothy and pale. The air smells like sea even more than normal, so much like ocean that it’s a little nauseating, and there are still stupid little bugs everywhere.