Being a writer is an endless study in human transition and lessons learned or forgotten or misapplied —Sloane Crosley
Being a writer is also realizing that the endless study in human transition can and does include the writer him/herself. That one’s own lessons learned, forgotten or misapplied, factor into one’s storytelling and the stories one wants to tell.
The stories I plan to tell will not make everyone happy. For those who like stories that are made of sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice, they can walk their asses right out the fucking door. Nothing I have to offer is made of sugar. I inhabit the realm of the salty, the tart, the bittersweet (emphasis on bitter, perhaps) and the uncomfortably hot. All that, yet still uniquely flavourful. Well, that’s what I believe anyway.
For the first time in quite awhile, I spent a good chunk of the weekend with my characters, my two boys. In many ways, the time together didn’t seem to suffer from a life that had kept me away from them since February. We carved out moments where we made a little time for each other. Never once did they disappear from me. They were and always have been close by. Never far from the reality of my life. Biding their time, and occasionally shaking their fists and even brandishing a weapon to use against anyone, real or fictional, who seemed to be in a threatening position to take me away from them.
It’s not surprising that other characters who might want me to tell their stories, have kept their distance from me because of the boys’ feral-like attitude to strangers and folks they don’t like. And there is a small list of folks they don’t like. Fortunately, none of them are the fictional characters I plan to work with in the future. So, yeah, the boys have gotten a bit better at allowing those folks to come closer. At least, close enough that I can hear them if they raise their voices.
Have I mentioned in previous posts that they are fiercely protective and possessive of me and what the three of us have together? I believe I have.
Most importantly, my boys love me. I don’t know why but they do. The fierce feelings are mutual.
In many ways, my boys are a blend of lessons learned, forgotten and misapplied not only in my own life but in those around me and what I see in the world. It’s more of a world view, I suppose, but the personal is very much in play.
In other ways, my boys are more than any word I could use to describe their presence and meaning to me. They are more than the ink that will form the vocabulary I will use to tell their story. We have a hold on each other. It is a powerful feeling to experience. It is tangible and intangible but undeniably visceral.
It’s bliss to be working on my writing projects again. Everything that goes into working on it, is familiar and warm. It’s something I fall into effortlessly without much thought. It’s also something I have been craving for a long time.
I think it has everything to do with the boys. They make it so easy for me to fall in with them, to let them take my hands and have them show me what they want me to know. It hasn’t been easy having them wait for me. Sometimes it hasn’t been easy getting them to co-operate when they’ve had their petulant moments.
Yes, we occasionally struggle and fight each other. But it’s only because we’re fighting for each other. This is what happens when we’re protective and possessive of each other.
My boys don’t know any other way. And that’s ok. Because when I’m with them, I don’t know any other way, either.