Well, I promised not to change a word of this, so here goes:
Writers have personas. This journal is, in some respects, very honestly me. But I filter things, because I have an ego that is easily bruised, because I have a specific story that I want to tell, because I don't want to give everything away. Is the writer essentially an actor, with just as many masks and ugly pieces to hide? Perhaps. I like to think of writers as a more noble, honourable bunch, but we are just as petty and mean, as interested in the admiration of a devoted public as any actor is.
Does this mean I should give up my delusions of grandeur, or whatever it is, and date Sullen Actor? Hell, is SA even interested in dating me? Now there's a question worth 10 points, under the category of 'Relationships.' 10 to win.
He hates the pseudonym I have assigned him, of course. I could call him Doogie Howser instead, but that would be even more obnoxious. I could call him Prawnfist, since he came up with it (though not in reference to himself). I could just call him Norts, since that seems to be the Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde nickname his friends use.
He is going to read whatever I write about him and critique it, try to get it to line up with his own version of events. And I am never going to get his side of things, because he isn't silly enough to have an online journal.
No matter how many times I tell myself to stop writing these things for the entire universe to read, I keep coming back. It's the thrill of the stage, without having to get up there and read this shit to someone. They seek it out, voyeuristically, because they are the subjects, the objects. They are curious to see how I will manipulate the world we live in, how I will filter and augment some supposedly objective reality. There's no such thing. All we have are our stories, our versions of events. There is no right answer. There is no capital t Truth. Fine. So what makes my version interesting? Is it simply because I am the writer and you are the reader, a player on my stage waiting to be assigned your actions? Are you waiting for the ending, the same way I am?
2 characters in search of an author. 2 characters, both of whom *are* authors. What an absurdly postmodern thing to write for the pleasure of 90 bajillion souls who ask themselves 'why the fuck should I care?'
I make things so complicated when all I really need to say is this: I thought it was ridiculous at first, but now I miss it. The nights we spent in bed together, not fucking but just lying there together, not wanting our time together to end. It's 1:39 in the morning, and I will post this later from the library or Kafein. I promise not to change a single word, no matter how melodramatic or ridiculous this entry seems in the harsh light of day.
If you need a soundtrack for this entry, it is probably something from Moulin Rouge. Try Ewan MacGregor's version of 'Your Song.' I never gave a damn about Elton John songs before, but Ewan has convinced me of his genius with his soothing tenor and earnest acting.
P.S. Josey thinks I have The Worst Sex Story Ever and will be printing my story in her July 14 column. For my troubles, I get a book called Superdate. Hilarious.
Writers have personas. This journal is, in some respects, very honestly me. But I filter things, because I have an ego that is easily bruised, because I have a specific story that I want to tell, because I don't want to give everything away. Is the writer essentially an actor, with just as many masks and ugly pieces to hide? Perhaps. I like to think of writers as a more noble, honourable bunch, but we are just as petty and mean, as interested in the admiration of a devoted public as any actor is.
Does this mean I should give up my delusions of grandeur, or whatever it is, and date Sullen Actor? Hell, is SA even interested in dating me? Now there's a question worth 10 points, under the category of 'Relationships.' 10 to win.
He hates the pseudonym I have assigned him, of course. I could call him Doogie Howser instead, but that would be even more obnoxious. I could call him Prawnfist, since he came up with it (though not in reference to himself). I could just call him Norts, since that seems to be the Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde nickname his friends use.
He is going to read whatever I write about him and critique it, try to get it to line up with his own version of events. And I am never going to get his side of things, because he isn't silly enough to have an online journal.
No matter how many times I tell myself to stop writing these things for the entire universe to read, I keep coming back. It's the thrill of the stage, without having to get up there and read this shit to someone. They seek it out, voyeuristically, because they are the subjects, the objects. They are curious to see how I will manipulate the world we live in, how I will filter and augment some supposedly objective reality. There's no such thing. All we have are our stories, our versions of events. There is no right answer. There is no capital t Truth. Fine. So what makes my version interesting? Is it simply because I am the writer and you are the reader, a player on my stage waiting to be assigned your actions? Are you waiting for the ending, the same way I am?
2 characters in search of an author. 2 characters, both of whom *are* authors. What an absurdly postmodern thing to write for the pleasure of 90 bajillion souls who ask themselves 'why the fuck should I care?'
I make things so complicated when all I really need to say is this: I thought it was ridiculous at first, but now I miss it. The nights we spent in bed together, not fucking but just lying there together, not wanting our time together to end. It's 1:39 in the morning, and I will post this later from the library or Kafein. I promise not to change a single word, no matter how melodramatic or ridiculous this entry seems in the harsh light of day.
If you need a soundtrack for this entry, it is probably something from Moulin Rouge. Try Ewan MacGregor's version of 'Your Song.' I never gave a damn about Elton John songs before, but Ewan has convinced me of his genius with his soothing tenor and earnest acting.
P.S. Josey thinks I have The Worst Sex Story Ever and will be printing my story in her July 14 column. For my troubles, I get a book called Superdate. Hilarious.