I wrote all day Saturday. It felt fabulous! I didn’t leave the house, I just sat in front of my laptop and wrote. Whenever I got stuck I’d run and clean something till words stuffed my brain again and I’d be compelled to dash back to my computer and keep going.
Saturday night I fell into bed with a sated feeling I haven’t had in far too long. Release.
Sunday I went to the Dutch Hutch and Skysidehe made me a gluten free pasta dish that was to die for and we watched ‘Perfume’.
A brilliantly twisted and dark movie that disturbed me only because I could so clearly empathize with the character. I drove home wondering how I can write characters that heavy, dark and understandable. Inhuman because he simply doesn’t know how to be, not because he is evil but because he has no understanding of love.
I got home and blurted to Indigo, “I have to be able to write that well! I have to be able to make characters that rich. I have to!”
She smiled and said, “You will.”
But I lay in bed and wondering, what drives me to need to tell stories? What compels me to need to capture it like ‘Perfume’? I’m not unlike him and it bothers me, because I am just as guilty of trying to capture the essence of something, and neglecting the human factor that makes it real and wholesome and vibrant.
I don’t know how not to be a storyteller. I don’t want to live without it because it fills me, but I want to be able to do it well and give something when it’s compete.
So I sit in front of my laptop, I go to coffee shops to be a voyeur… I watch, but I rarely engage, and when I engage – I am often still not fully committed to the moment because I want to witness it, thereby to dissect it later and capture it in words.
Is this need to be a storyteller and not a participant why I am unable to deeply bond? It this why I am afraid to live as fully as I can? It this what’s holding me back from a meaningful relationship?
And even if it’s not, how fucking awesome is it that one movie can trigger all these questions in me? I think that rocks.
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