My life is so reflected in my writing, and vice versa. This has really been some weird times for me. It was a shock to be jolted from my numbness into full-blown emotional upheaval but now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do. Drinking doesn’t solve anything. In fact, it quite often leads me to moments of tearful confession and that my friends has only brought me more emotion. The very thing I’m trying to avoid.
My next outlet is to write. To curse my characters with the situations, feelings, emotions I don’t want. Let them deal with it. Which they do and usually so much more better than I ever would. The problem with that though, is when the sun sets, and I’m alone in the dark; the chapter, passage, sentences written, I’m still left with reality (as weird as it can be for me). I still feel, and that my reader(s) has lead me to this.
Another short story. I’m posting the rough draft as it comes to me. So, the beginning came to me last night. I was sitting with a friend and a potential business partner of sorts. I was feeling content, self-confident (WOW) and comfortable in my skin. I had gotten a, “you know you’re beautiful, right?” earlier that day and by last night, I was damn feeling it. So here’s what my muse whispered in my ear:
She walks with purpose. Hips swaying, catching the men’s eyes as she passes. She wears her self-confidence like an expensive lotion, slathered all over her body, making her skin glow like chocolate sprinkled with gold. Or better yet, her self-worth covers her like a fine silk gown, all cascading folds of soft fabric, flowing with each movement she makes.
The egos approach her with the hopes of bending her to their will; using charm, swagger and their version of expensive taste. As if flash and cockiness will impress her enough to let them rule her empire. The babies want to taste the breast milk of her strength. To suckle from her wealth of determination and drive. They would drain her dry if given the opportunity. Not caring about the shell they’d leave behind. She is neither impressed with the egos, or nurturing enough for the babies.
Oh, and then the sun rose on today and the face in the mirror wasn’t so beautiful. A few words combined giving the demon power to rise up and strike my hard-earned, short-lived confidence to the floor. My muse grabbed the feeling, twisting it into the next section of the piece:
She prefers to stand alone, eat, entertain, and be alone. The better to safe guard her inner most desires from those who would rather crush them than see them grow. The power thieves fear that the expanse of her greatness would block their sunlight. As if there isn’t enough for every one.
I’m feeling all, well, down. Sad even. Yet another emotion I keep but have no idea how to deal with. And in the midst of the tearing up (GACK!!), my divinity wrote this,
And then he showed up. Not a prince in shiny, fake armor. No hero, he is flawed. Human even. Which is, of course, what would attract her if she’d wanted to be attracted. He wasn’t aware of his magnetism. He spent most of his time genuinely confused as to why the bobble headed, fashonistas were flocking. Inquiring of his status, his job, his income, his mode of transportation and number of off spring he may have spawned. A polite response almost always had to include a drink paid for from his coffers, never the other way around. He’d long since given up dating, there was no need. He could find out all he needed to know from one or two of these response, drink combinations. If he refused to pay for the champagne, there were no more inquiries. If he paid for the gin and tonic, but then refused to pay for new hair, nails, shoes, dresses, or formula for the baby, there were no more inquiries. He chose instead, to enjoy his solitude with nameless company. Going only as far as he was comfortable.
I don’t understand why my divinity won’t allow me to just move on without the idea of a “him.” Life, experience has proven otherwise. I was happier with the hit and run aspect; I knew not to expect, not to want, not to yearn. I was okay with…
Only everyone else realized how lonely they both were.
Damn, there goes that voice again. Anyway, I’ll share the rest of the draft as it comes to me because I want help deciding which one of us is crazier, me or my divinity. I want help getting back to being comfortable in my skin. I want to write, live, and experience without the hope. Is that even possible?
My life as rough draft.