This is my third attempt to write something today. I’ve written two other short stories this morning about the relationship troubles of a couple named Barry and Virginia. One centered on Virginia’s decision to leave Barry for complicated reasons known only to her and his convulsive heartache. And the second story involved the actual break-up conversation between Virginia and Barry. I stopped both stories near their conclusions because it seemed to be hitting me too close to home.
I understand that as a writer you have to leave a piece of yourself on the page. I know that there has to be a large amount of the emotional turmoil that a writer knows that has to be presented. But for once I thought I was going too far, that I was almost too autobiographical and that would be unfair to myself and those people that I think would know who it was I was referring to.
The purpose of these pages it to entertain and not drag out or dredge up my own insecurities or emotional desires. My job as a writer is to bring up your insecurities and emotional desires, or at least make you think about them in a certain, perhaps nostalgic, way. To boldly present my personal emotional thoughts on certain subjects (other than my employment woes) just ends up like reading my diary and frankly, that’s a pretty boring ass read.
(It’s actually more complaining than this believe it or not).
One of the problems I have with living alone is that I really allow myself to indulge in my fantasies. I get into a long thought chain that drags me across the vivid jungle of my imagining mind. Then suddenly I find myself standing at the shores of these blank pages and I start to spout out my own emotional business instead of writing something that encourages you to explore our collective emotional business.
For instance, yesterday I wrote about love. And I felt like that was a subject we explored together, maybe had a little chuckle about. Other than that though, I haven’t thought much about love. That is to say, until this past weekend when I felt like I fell in love with someone? But know better than to actually do so. Take a deep breath, it is okay. I’m not entirely convinced of it myself. I know that it would be foolish to fall in love right now, how it happened I’m entirely unsure. Something about how comfortable and soothing I find her. Her smile and her voice, her energy, her spirit, sigh…. I mean, so these two stories I was writing about Barry and Virginia was the detailed destruction of their fledging, perhaps one sided love story.
It got too personal for me. I can certainly profess what my thoughts about the concept of love are, but when I have to practically apply it to my own life I can see the danger and heartache it actually can cause. So Barry and Virginia’s stories were doomed to fail; or at least get shelved for the time being.
There’s a word I’m very familiar with; unrequited. I think it’s the most painful word in the English language. I’m sure we all know the trouble with that word. Maybe someday I’ll be able to finish the Barry and Virginia stories and they’ll have a happy ending, or at least a satisfying one.