A body that’s so full, the energy spills out in every direction and reaches the furthest points in the galaxy. A body, rife with such emotion, such movement it can barely contain it all, so she has to be bigger and more vigorous. A body that pushes words out and tries to convey, weigh, catalog, and identify, but feels lasting frustration with the endeavor because words can never capture what’s really happening inside. Words are mere nuances, shadows, ghosts of the depth and intensity that this body and consciousness experience.
How to tell you how it feels for me here, now, in this body, on this planet, in this life, in this moment? It’s nearly impossible. I have no proper conveyance system to help you understand, but for the expression in my eyes. If you want to know, you have to look into my face. Then, you will see it. You will get it. You will come away with a piece of the truth.
Sigh. I’ve been writing my novel again. Mostly because the emotional pressure has built up so much inside of me that I must write. I must get it out. I sit here and climb the purple walls in my office for a few days and then, I can’t take it anymore. My body is so #@&% full of feelings that I have to tap in, drain it off, release. Such is the anguish and the exaltation of the writer.
My protag is a fierce woman. She is a depressive. She is intense, strong, deep-feeling, ballsy. She merges with other people in a culture that stringently dictates how and when that should happen. She’s not unlike me. And, while I don’t want to write about myself (because I’m pretty sick of myself most of the time), I can’t help it. I’m all that I know.
The challenge for any novelist is to create a character so different from one’s self that that character lives outside of, eclipses the psyche that created it. I’m not there yet. All I can do for now is plumb the depths of my own being and spill it all out in the hopes that this character will someday emerge from my shadow and stand in her own light. I want her to be other than me. I want her to live.
So, lately, I’ve managed to write (on her behalf) some snippets that might almost be good. Tell me what you think.
“The depths that I swim frighten me. I go so, so deep. I live in that murky half-light, that blue-to-black space, that world between worlds. I live in a place without light. I breathe the sea.”
“His silence is either bad or worse. It almost never means goodness. It’s a cold stare, a closed hand. A dark room. It means consternation, tension, guilt. When he’s silent, I have no choice but to make up stories about his feelings (or lack thereof). I have no handhold, no beam of energy on which travel, no connection. His silence is a knife in my neck.”
“If only I were enough for myself. How different might my life be? Today, I can describe my life only in terms of what’s missing. So much is missing. What’s not here is what I carry into each strangled moment. The ache of loss. The dim blood-beat of loneliness. What’s not here smothers me. I feel like I’m drowning.”
“He lives and breathes from inside of me and while I don’t know exactly what it all means, if anything, I can say that to feel him so close, so immediate, so deeply but not be able to touch him is torture. It’s a yearning that never ceases. A gnawing, steady drag of feeling through me that never relents.”