Day 353 - The Narcissist in the Writer
They say that you should know your target audience.
You should know your genre.
You should have a point.
What kind of story are you telling?
How are you going to tell the story?
And most important of all, everyone wants to know WHY.
Believe it or not, I've asked myself these questions.
Several times I've abandoned the effort of writing this story altogether.
I often see it as a
selfish,
antagonistic,
self-congratulatory,
narcissistic,
in-your-face,
angry,
woe-is-me,
pity story.
I flash back in my mind to when my college volleyball team was in the van on the way back from a game. Somehow the conversation had landed on the flaws of parents (maybe I did that) and I was vomiting out a litany of frustrations with mine. One of my teammates patiently turned to me with a controlled Christlike look on her face and said, "Can you tell us some of the good things that your parents did for you?" My emotional purging stopped cold and I swallowed hard against that jolt of shame as I looked around the van, realized that they all wanted me to stop, and I slowly returned to the matrix. (I told them how my parents read to us.)
We all have a story.
She has a story.
I know some of the story that I would write if I were her.
So I think to myself - outside of myself:
What makes me so special?
Nothing.
What makes my story unique?
Nothing.
What makes me so certain that people will want to hear what I have to say?
Absolutely nothing.
What am I saying that hasn't already been said before?
Nothing,
Nothing,
Nothing.
And yet, for some unfathomable reason, I am compelled to publicly eviscerate myself....and possibly several other people along with me. But there are reasons and I will try to be as gut-wrenchingly honest (perfect twist on words) as I write them:
- Anger....I am still angry with how the story has played out so far. I am angry that I still have to defend who I am. I am angry that I am alone. I am angry that no one seems to be able to see past the anger.
- Fear...But I am also afraid that I will get stuck in my anger and that I will become my own prisoner if I don't find a way to get free. I am afraid that I will just return over and over to the same disappointing story, always ending with self-sabotage. I am afraid that I continue to create my own reality with my anger and my fear.
- Love...It took me a long time to realize that my struggle to love myself was the root of my inability to love others and be loved by them. I still desperately believe in love despite all the anger and the fear and I'm still determined to find it. I'm willing to bleed for it.
And that's pretty much it.
Because when I get to Love, I realize that I'm writing this story just because I'm going to love myself enough to listen to this girl,
to not bully her anymore,
to not be ashamed of her,
to learn to be her friend again,
to realize that she is the only one who can keep me from feeling so alone.
I need her. I want to love her again without being afraid of what other people think.
I have to do this for her.
That's why I'm writing this story.
Maybe no one else will ever care.
But she cares.
* * * * *
The Poem that Doesn't Rhyme
I wanted a (noble) reason to write this book.
I don’t think I have one.
You should have a (good) reason, right?
You should probably also have a happy or hopeful ending.
I keep waiting for that too.
But so far, I’m still alone.
Even when I’m not.
The rebuttals are all there inside my thoughts.
You don’t have to remind me.
I know.
I do.
I know what my real reason is for writing this book, for pleading aloud with my story.
I don’t want to be alone.
I want to belong and be longed for.
If I had that, I would have no reason to beg you to hear me.
~ The girl
