Everyone and no one is talking about you.
I talk to myself a lot.
Not in the schizophrenic way, of course. I don't think. Though, there's nothing wrong with that, really.
But more likely, it's the kind of thing that happens when I am alone cleaning my apartment, putting on makeup, etc. Often menial tasks. So I talk to myself in voices, make up characters, scenarios, scenes and dialogues.
And yes, I defy anyone to tell me that all writers don't do this same behavior.
Anyway, so last night, I happened to be in a bit on a bit of a "A Streetcar Named Desire" kick. So what morphed from my quoting and doing my best Vivien Leigh as Blanche DuBois impression, turned into my own off-shoot, irrelevantly original scenes.
My characters were two lovers. Orbiting each other, deciding whether they should or shouldn't. One was married and unhappy, the other single and unhappy, both for different reasons. Should they have an affair? What would be the outcome? Is chemistry, once created, ultimately impossible to resist? Should it be?
At one point, my female character - let's call her Beatrice - said, "Mistakes can be like gifts."
That's when I stopped my dramatics and looked at myself in the mirror and said, "Hey, girl...that was mildly profound. You probably plagiarized it from somewhere."
But, after some cursory Googling, I realized nope - a truly original phrase all my own. Hooray!
Then, because I am, at the end of the day, still a cynic, I thought, "You know, this is the exact kind of cheezy meme thing that some teenage girl, (who I adore already for having been her once), would put on her Tumblr or Instagram, in an effort to provide her followers with something inspirational.
So, here it is, girls. I made it for you. Post it in your lockers and Tumblrs. Share it with your friends who have summer jobs at FreePeople and Urban Outfitters and Gypsy Warrior. They might like it, too.
It's my gift to you. Happy youth. Mistakes can be like gifts.
It's happening. A lot of it. Writing. Real writing.
It's sacred. This practice. This craft of writing. Sacred to me. When you have memories and physical proof of an act that goes back to your very earliest years, it must be a sacred practice.
There's nothing more than this I can say, except that I am grateful. What everyone, myself included, needs to know is that I am thankful and happy that I am able to do what I love.
Strange that we live in a world where women give birth to people who grow up to dehumanize them.
We're not homogeneous. (Gosh, I hope we aren't.) And I don't want to have the same conversations and do the same things with the same people, always. And I have learned -- sometimes though hard lessons -- that one relationship never will be able to fill all the holes. No singular friendship is enough.
There are too many things that I want to love and experience that will never be things that my friends will want to love and experience. And that's okay. Just as it's okay that I will probably never purposefully listen to a Lil Wayne song.
Last night I went by myself to an Instagram meetup at Mt. Davidson with STRANGERS.
I didn't talk about myself at all, really. Nothing personal. Just about photography, the light, the trees, the moon. The beautiful, Harvest moon of heralding Fall.
Everyone there was passionate about all of these things, and we came together to spend time enjoying them.
Maybe a friend would have gone with me if I had asked, but I didn't. I just wanted to go as myself, an unknown, with no backstory. With no expectation of expository information or perception.
I wanted to be someone new.