I came to an understanding earlier today about several things that had been bothering me and were residual feelings from last year. I have blogged about it quite a bit in the last few months and I’ll just reiterate before I go any further – no one’s gonna read this. Stephen King: don’t sweat it, mate. That person didn’t show either, y’know. The one you direct the message at. Catch me?
Anyway … I came to terms with all of it. Subject you ask? Answer from yours truly: Intimacy. Specifically, can one survive without intimacy in a person’s life? If so, for how long? If not, then with what recourse?
I’ve come to grips that the answer is no. The recourse? Still struggling with that. But I do know a few things about it.
I had an enlightening phone call today and decided to tell someone the heart of my problem. I hadn’t yet before put it into words to anyone as I didn’t think anyone would understand -- as every time I have tried in the recent months, I’ve failed, or rather -- they didn't understand. But vocalizing the way you feel can do wonders, lemme tell you. I’m evading, I know.
Let me go make a quick cuppa tea. One moment.
Okay, I’m back …
So, I stated that I was feeling so isolated and alone that I was beginning to feel like one of the characters in my books and that specifically I felt like I was turning into a department store mannequin, just as Sebastien had in Greyhound. Shameful plug. I thought that these feelings had begun to fade and that I was getting better, but in truth they were getting worse because of the realization of the complete void of physical intimacy in my life. No one holds my hand, or hugs me, nobody strokes my hair and says shits gonna be alright. Nobody sleeps next to me at night or rolls over on me in the morning. No one turns on the coffee pot for me or sits on my lap at the park. Quite the opposite, people go out of their way to avoid me or even make physical contact. Shake my hand, say hello, make eye contact. I do the best I can.
The people I see, don’t see me, and no one knows the person they know isn’t really me. It’s the 1/5fth me. The inside me stays quiet all day and it just gets old.
I was told that there are consequences to the things I write about in books, whether I had realized it or not and that sometimes, these consequences are lasting and aren’t easily uprooted. They’re like dandelions. I’m not a person who writes modern Vampire Romance and I’m not knocking the genre, but I think that there’s very little emotional investment on the part of the author in creating that stuff. Some writing can take so much out of a person that you can run your emotional vehicle to empty, forcing yourself to get behind it and push. Most days this is me and I’m struggling to move at the same speed as everyone else and I tell myself that I’m not in this predicament when I am. There is no Triple A for people like me. The other problem is that, as I was so adroitly informed, I might as well be on the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro, because that’s how rare people like me are. They’re nowhere -- and I’m probably not going to be able to connect to someone who would understand anytime soon. Most of the other people like me, are also in hiding and they definitely don’t read internet blogs in the middle of the night. Sounds laughable but it’s true.
It was also brought up that sometimes – or rather – a lot of the times, writer’s misinterpret self-preservation for writer’s block, because that’s what kicks in when you pour yourself into a book, probably physically removing a piece of yourself in a Carlos Castenedian kind of way and exhausting yourself. There are writer’s that take a decade to write a book and then another three before they surface again because of how much they’ve given of themselves and the people around them probably just don’t get it and don’t really think about what they hell that person is engaged in. I wish it wasn’t like this, but it is. Maybe I should stop writing, but I know I won’t, because I can’t. It’s what happens after the fact that gets me feeling uncomfortable. You could curse your fate and kick and scream, but truly, sometimes, you just gotta let go.
As Bruce Springsteen sang: “I’m driving a stolen car, down on Eldridge Avenue …”, all these things are true. I steal that car every night, people, and I tell myself it’s gonna be alright.
I don’t know about modern Vampire Romance, but I know that anything I write, I have to hope to god that the person reading feels the same way someone does when they go to a Van Gough exhibit and experience something real. What’s the point if they don’t? What’s the point if you don’t? If you can’t create an emotional response in your reader then I think you’ve probably failed at your job. Not everyone wants to write directly to the deepest part of you either, because it’s like a lottery. You’re shooting for somewhere that doesn’t really exist and chances are you’re going to miss. But some of us must, even if no one ever knows that this is our plan the whole damn time.
Most days, I feel like Dr. Geoffrey House, scheming and hatching these incredibly elaborate plans to create some level of intimacy in my life, but I just fail miserably each time and it only makes it worse. I realize I’m a fool no matter what and I always end up alone on the couch cursing myself for getting nowhere and just stare up at the ceiling and gripping my cup of tea like a dying man because it’s the only external warmth I’ve experienced all day. And that’s when I ask myself dangerous questions like ‘Kevlar or Cherrywood?’ and I probably shouldn’t.
I used to think it wasn’t a problem but I know it is. I’m 38 years old but I feel like I’m 78 and the world has already forgotten about me and has no interest. Back to burying myself alive I guess. Don’t hate me if I start to gnarl into unexpected directions like a tree that’s being forced to do something unnatural.