Writing Again

Sometimes it's easy.

Sometimes it feels like the story is writing itself, like it's all already there and you just have to record it.  Every word it perfect, every plot twist just the way it has to be, the characters developing in new and exciting directions so fast you can barely keep up.  It's like something is burning inside you, just under the ribcage.  It's like being horny; that maddening need to be with the story, to let it consume you.

Other times it's hard.  So hard, you don't want to face it.  You look at what you've written, and you wonder "How did I come up with that shit?" and it doesn't seem worth it to fix any of the millions and millions of problems with the text.  The characters are flat, the whole concept is unoriginal.  Your story is boring.  Your initial creative rush has died to a trickle of foul sludge.  New, exciting ideas hover at the edge of your mind, and you want to leave this one behind and chase them, even though you know it will all end the same, and that you won't be able to commit until you finish this one, and maybe, just maybe, a part of you still believes in that boring old story.

It is this that separates the writers from the dreamers.  Even when you don't want to face the story, you do it anyway, and stare at the document for hours, forcing out a sentence every few minutes.  Then it feels like the story is there again, but trapped behind a glass wall, and it can't get out.  Still, you plow on ahead.

Even when your mother walks into your room and asks "Oh, what are you doing?  Are you writing?"  "Yes."  "Is it for your blog?"  "No."  "Oh, do you have some sort of project, a story?"  "I don't really want to talk about it."  "Well, you could just say a manuscript," as she goes off in an offended huff, because even though we usually get along great, if there is a problem with our relationship then it's always my fault, and she never bothers to ask me if maybe I'm being belligerant because I'm upset about something, and what might that be?  Not unless I have a complete emotional breakdown and burst into tears, and even then it's hard to get her to actually listen.  Note to self:  When you start seeing a counselor in the fall, make sure to bring up your crapsaccharine relationship with your mother.

And then you're all frazzled and can't concentrate, and feel oddly violated and raw, so you maybe force out another sentence or at least finish the one you were on, then close down and let the story recover.  But it is still there, that nagging, unfinished business that you cannot quite leave behind you.  And you're going to have to go through it all over again tomorrow.

This is what separates the writers from the dreamers.

I'm Proud To Be Minnesotan

On Sunday I went to Twin Cities Gay Pride.  (Or LGBTQA...whatever).  This is the first time in my life I have attended a gay event of this magnitude, and the first time in my hometown.

My brother's reaction:  "Yeah, I think I'll sit out."
My dad's reaction:  "Just don't go running off to the Gay 90's  (local gay bar)."
My mom's reaction:  "Sounds fun.  Maybe I'll come too."

Here I have to add a little tangent about books (because it's me, after all).  One of my biggest frustrations with gay-themed teen books from the nineties is that they are all coming out stories (or staying in stories, but those seem to be a fading trend), and very few of them offer any sort of picture of what it is actually like to be out and gay to your family.  In other words, I'm sailing blind.

So to my brother I can say, It's okay, I don't blame you for trying to retain your heterosexual male dignity, to my dad, Umm, I'm not of age and you know I don't like to drink anyway, and to my mom...well.

I had agreed to meet with a friend from college at Pride, and I like to keep my college life and home life separate.  It's just so weird when they intersect.  I was also in my independent teenager  mode, and did not want my mom in my life any more than was absolutely necessary.

But.

How many gay people do you know whose parents are not only willing but actually want to go to Pride with them?  At least among my immediate circle of friends, the answer is depressingly few.  The world is changing, but it has not changed so much that I can take my family's unconditional love and acceptance for granted.  I know too many people in too many situations.

So in the end, I did go with my mom (I needed her to drive me anyway).  Because it is not just the gays that we are celebrating at Pride.  It is our place in the world, a place where we can be free to be who we are, and the people who make that world possible - not just gay people, but our neighbors and friends and families who love us.

It gets better.

Not even in the course of your individual life, but the enitre course of the world is getting better.  Let's stick around and see just how good it can get.