I haven't been able to write as me for a while now. And if you want to be completely linear about it, that's because I haven't been me for a while now.
Some other woman has been stealing around Fredricksburg, wearing me well; doing things that I usually fall back on in my weakest moments. This stranger insults anyone willing to provoke her in the slightest with a rather scathing accuracy, yet reverts to a flustered cutsey tone when confronted with something even mildly embarrasing.
It's like one hundred years of PMS.
When she arrived, my diagnostic sense about my writing vanished. In it's place was a strange yearning to forget about writing fact (filtered through my perception) for a while, and focus on fiction. Odd names (French ones, preppie ones; not my usual choices), tangled long term relationships (I am single, and practically celibate), alien walks of life (suburbian white collar) abound in my more recent stories. It feels glassy, but also tangible. Like this is a world I know, however much it disconcerts me.
I tread carefully around Margot. A few years down the road and a few self involved, misplaced steps; I could be her. And that honestly scares the shit out of me.
I write these stories to exorsize the character's demons from my own psyche. I create them to be rid of them, to trap those thought patterns and personality traits into a tangle of words neatly framed and finite on a piece of paper, or this webpage.
Secretly; childishly, I think that if I provide them with a plush enough existence in my writings, perhaps they will no longer have any urge to reside within my soul. As vividly as possible, I bring the traits I find utterly disgusting and pitifully shameful within myself to life in these stories.
Stories about rainstorms, about release; about the one thing in any given life that tips you off of the edge of complacent normalcy, and into the abyss. Whether my characters are smashing bay windows, or sleeping with thier girlfriend's sister, or masturbating at an abandoned Greyhound station for a complete stranger... they all seem to have fallen. Or should I say, faltered into some sort of mini (or major) meltdown.
I will be more at ease when I write (and realize) what happens after the storm finally breaks.
Too bad I am drawing a blank there.
Perhaps I should ask the stranger who's been so kind as to type this for me.
2:19 a.m. - 2001-08-19
Recent entries:
cliffhanger - 2005-11-12
Mary - 2005-02-08
Border - 2004-07-26
Propaganda - 2004-02-20
Lifer - 2003-12-05
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