"When you have a moment, can you please contemplate the question of why I can't bloody write fiction?"
"Fiction is for little kids, dear."
Confession: I've already finished writing this story. The above exchange took place today- as I was battling Wattpad's "You have saved a previous version" blah blah whilst attempting to split a few of the longer chapters into two. (Won't tell you what dark and rather profane places this took my mind to!)
I have spent many months now trying to write something other than what I am living. It irks me- this inability to write fiction. No matter where my 'characters' begin and where they are supposed to end up- inevitably, it's me and him... off on another tangent. Another chapter in our tale- another instalment to that great book: Our love story- (Crap, hang in, I have to do something. As is often so, I let his wisdom pass without mention! BRB.)
"BTW... the statement about fiction being for little kids. It was not only profound (in the many interpretations it contains) but also exactly what I needed to hear. Just thought you should know- though you probs already do in which case, I thank you. Laters."
It came, the sunflower emoticon which has replaced our previous big red love heart. I replied with one of my own. Facebook is our chosen private space. (Not the profile some of you know me in, but the 'other one', where I am at liberty to enjoy him without hindrances and complications.)
There. (That's where our love is.) I'm back. To tell you (readers) I meant every word I said (to him) above. I am notorious for failing to appreciate statements in the moment- it's like tithe to the Queen, you know? Like I expect them/deserve them/have earned them purely by being- whatever this 'it' is. Above is the perfect example. He complimented me. (We have out own language.) I didn't acknowledge it 'in the moment' because- because my mind was ahead, awaiting/expecting other, better entitlements.
There is a peculiarity to 'us'. We reflect. If I give bad, I get bad back. If I give good, good comes right back at me. Okay, it doesn't sound so peculiar- you get what you give, as is often said. But. Living this premise- the brain simply cannot comply... always. It seeks good in return for bad some days. It doesn't get it. Resentments form. And some days, the brain is selective- no matter what is shared, it chooses to take in only some of it. (And if you're two like us, that's usually the good. We got too much of the bad around us already. We don't want to see it between us. So we try to ignore bad for the most part- oft cutting conversations short or deflecting, before too much of it seeps in.)
I recall, he said one day: "Everything I write is either about you n me or for you n me." I'd known precisely what he'd meant, for am I not doing the same thing, thus my battle-cry lament above? Since the day he emerged in my life (one might actually suspect life or serendipity of manifesting him?) I have been writing for his eyes. Everything put on paper is 'read through his eyes' before sharing with the world- this, an attempt to gauge his reaction (since there's the dark writer-y protesting side of mine at times sneaking in- where words are bullets and paragraphs, machine guns and - God forbid you get an essay-length email from me - canons... with awfully large balls.)
So what you will read is what is- or was, since something mentioned by one of us (I forget who or what) led me to remember this chapter needing telling; an instalment in retrospect, let's just call it. It happened. As I describe it. Really, it could have been one hell of a romance story. Bit of tweaking, some bending of the truth, a little voyeurism and voila! ChickLit heaven. (Drink it up Wattpad?)
Alas... You're getting what happened for real. And what, 'what happened for real' did to my brain. And to some other places. There's no fiction to any of it, much as it would have helped my appearing/sounding less... insane?
And something else has surfaced of late (or rather I have acknowledged it of late) in me: Melancholy. This curious, other-worldly, mysterious word- I am convinced every NF writer is familiar with it. I spy it everywhere now, times when I need a rest from my own words. It hints at resignation, sufferance, acceptance of one's fate - no, I am not talking major depressive disorders here or what the experts often refer to as "a state of low mood". I speak of a bitter sweetness, a peculiarly comforting dis-ease; a wistfulness that settles over one's living like a second shadow.
We trail - or sometimes we spy stretching ahead - an image of ourselves elongated and distorted but not necessarily 'grotesque' or 'depressing'. Rather, a shadow holding in its length our regrets, past and future- a measure of purposeful decisions taken (sometimes rather spitefully against our gut instinct) to ensure the constancy of this state. I am convinced writers regret a lot, under the guise of this one word.
For are not writers far better actors if the truth were to be told? Are we not ever acting out in our heads and then transferring those scenes to paper or digital files? Where is the line, that line separating reality from all that we concoct in our musings and how often do we traverse between the two, the line blurred; at times obscured entirely?
As for the recall, I may be the most hopeless case of "What was his name again?" moments after being introduced, but. When it comes to recording a scene- oh, I can file away details with the best of them. Ask anyone who's ever gone down the path of discussing a film with me- one they directed me to watch. (If I didn't retain your name, you were obviously unimportant to the scene/scenario being recorded in my brain, duh?)
He, my other, mostly better half- he might ingest these 24 hours and form conclusions of his own. It does somewhat disturb me. Yet I lived those hours with him beside me, despite the handicap of distance in both time and place. I lived them, and the aftermath, and I recorded them in absolute honesty. I cannot write fiction, damn it!