No that’s not a typo – bearing – because I do feel very low right now. I’ve been writing for Sleeping With Bread most Mondays over at Bawdy Wench but this weekend matters have not resolved.
Who am I?
I’m a woman.
I’m a writer.
I’ve tried regular posting, but Bawdy Wench and Dewy Knickers are more suited to that venue. I’ve tried emails but real life issues prevent many of my friends from replying. I don’t ‘like’ blogging. Rose is too private and too shy to be open enough to connect.
I printed out the complete manuscript of my book this morning, 307 pages double-spaced, for the first time I held the weight of my dreams in my hands. I’m proud of my efforts yet desolate at my lack of motivation. Lack of desire. Why am I this way?
I am shy. Really. My fantasies may be forceful and successful but the body is an insurmountable obstacle. Writing is spontaneous for me but many writers state that dedication and scheduling are the keys to production. Is it just an excuse? Do I really want to write?
Yes. I do.
I think of my friends. In England, in South Florida, in California, in Canada, throughout the United States and in India there are people who know Rose. Some of them I’ve met in person which brings up the strange paradox of social blogging. I can’t talk to my neighbors but a stranger becomes a friend by commenting on my blog.
I don’t ‘like’ blogging but I love the friends who’ve become so important to me.
I could never be an editor. Receiving rejections doesn’t bother me, if my work isn’t good enough, then I need to write better stories. I have lots of ideas, lots of visions, but somehow the urgency, the passion fades away in black and white. The concepts I have are somehow bigger than the page. How do you translate the emotions within the tormented mind?
My mind is tormented; hidden behind his. Filtered through his psyche I find myself munching on stale leftovers. Homeless in a way. I can relate to the fringe people because I am even beyond them. Beyond the far reaches I explore territory filled with monsters, demons and dance with death.
Death is beautiful.
Yet, I am so angry at the world. So angry at the powerful and the rich for being so smug while millions die needlessly. As the economic meltdown accelerates the harsh lessons of the past are returning. Workers are scum. That is a mantra that business has lived for millennia and even a cursory reading of the daily headlines reveals companies throwing employees overboard in the name of ‘cost-cutting’. People aren’t numbers. There is a reason that the rich are hated.
Politicians too. They are all corrupt and have lied, cheated and stole in the pursuit of power.
Why bother fighting back?
Is this the tipping point? Is this when the world commences the slide into anarchy? Are the riots of the past year spreading quicker than the spread between the poor and the rich? Is this the end of democracy?
Alright, so I can write when I put my mind on the keyboard. [That's a weird visual.]
I like essays. I like writing my thoughts into fiction. I like making the world more complex. I ‘like’ blogging for that reason. Blogging brings the world to my computer and grabs my attention. I want to be there. I want to be with you. I want to live in a giant house with all my friends. [I don't do dishes though.]
Utopia is a myth.
That is a fact.
People can’t live together… not for long without feeling homicidal. What is it about mind and ego that are so strong? Personality is amazing. I know this to be true for obvious reasons but it still doesn’t make any sense. I have no explanation for me. None at all. Is that bad? Not really. I exist at my own sufferance and death offers me a drink.
That’s a good title: “Death Offers me a Drink”.
Obsessed? No, it goes way beyond that. I’m obsessed with quantum physics.
I am proof. Yes I am.
If every moment of your life is a quantum choice, then I am here, right now because of my quantum path, not his. His is suspended for as long as I choose. Think about that please. As a multiple personality my path diverges as Rose. The search for a literary agent is my quantum path that never would have existed without my decisions. I’ve submitted fiction under my name to journals. I write as Rose and my dreams are mine. Mine I tell you. So who am I?
I am Rose.
I am a woman.
I am a writer.
I am still lost… will you help me?
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