Inside This Cave Is Where I Live

As soon as I thought the words in my head, I knew them to be true. 'You can't re-write history'. Nope. It's an impossibility. Is that what I've been trying to do? To live vicariously? To change my past and my future?

I refuse to believe it's as simple as that. That my ambitions are only cover-up for my longings. No. Like I said, it's not that simple. It's more than that. It has to be.

My brain tells me that it's more. My brain says it's something close to passion. That I admire what I long for, and so can't help but desire that sameness. But still, and I hate to broken record here, it's not that simple.

Which came first, chicken or egg? Or, in my case, desire or admiration? Do I admire them as a result of my envy? Or do I envy them for achieving what I cannot? Both. Of course and always.

I Can't Quit You Baby

I've been very reflective lately. This urge I've got, to put my feelings to page, rather than a story, is exhausting. I'm wrestling every day with how much is too much. There is so much I want from this. So much it feels like I need. And the doubt is excruciating. Especially considering my latest mudslide. Sometimes the need seems physical. Like, I get so keyed up that I vibrate with it.

When I was very young, 3 I think, I remember driving my mother nuts one day with my need. I would write strings of letters down, run to her on the couch, and ask her what they said. And she would sigh, replying, "Nothing." Undeterred, I would run (always running) back to my room, write another "sentence", and repeat the process. This seems significant somehow.

I can feel it. I swear I can. The inevitability of it seems real, I guess. That's the only way I know how to describe it, and the farthest I'm willing to go in regards to commitment. But there's that other inevitability, the one I really can't describe, warring with it. If I could elaborate, I might. Probably not. But I can't, so it's a moot point.

Sabotage

Have I become too clinical? Has my meticulous planning resulted in a disconnect, instead of the intended 'detailed fiction'? I mean, don't get me wrong. It's detailed, all right. I know my character inside and out now. But that's my whole point. Are they strangers now that I know them so well?

I've tried very hard to maintain a sense of the things I know with my protagonists - their quirks and psychological defects. I'm a sucker for those. And my favorite writers have always demonstrated a clear favoritism for their own lives. Irving's penchant for writing about prep school wrestlers makes me want to roll my eyes, but that would be hypocritical. Instead I choose to applaud him for it. He's talented, the bastard. He reaches inside his characters and pulls out their guts, pinning it to the page for all of us to get a good look at. I want that. I want to know how much of them are real.

But for my own writing, for now, I'll settle for something even remotely organic. I'm struggling at this point to avoid manufactured shit - it's so difficult. How can I write what I don't understand, though? And why did going so deep result in such confusion? I can barely keep track of everything now. And fuck if I'm not panicking just writing this. It's a fine summation of my inexperience, I'm sure.

Quicksand

What a tangled web I'm weaving. And what's it worth? If I finish, the world, I guess. It's worth the world. Rick said it's my passion, which of course resonated with me, because it was flattering. Naturally. I try not to let the bothersome stuff resonate. But of course the shitty stuff that does is the very worst, and makes me feel so small. I don't want to feel small with my creative output. I want to soar. I want to fly above the others. And there's that voice inside me, insisting, sneering rather, that it isn't going to happen. And that makes me angry. With myself. I'd be black and blue if I slapped myself as often as I should.

Starting Fresh

I am a writer. I am. There is a passion. A want. A need to excel. An anger with myself for not achieving perfect heights. This is how I know that I'm a writer. And now I shall go and write.