Not ranting takes up a great deal of energy. I mean it! When there are all these words piled up just behind my fingertips, it takes all I've got to keep them from pouring out.
Which means if I actually had any free time, I'd probably write a story, twisting the rant and shaping it into something else, but in such a way that it comes out anyway.
That's what writing is for. In part anyway. It can be very therapeutic. I look back at some of the pieces of stories on my hard drive and I can point to them and say, "Yeah, I know why I started that." The scene might not have anything to do with the original reason. The average person reading it probably couldn't identify the people it was based on. Or the episode of my life that spawned it. But a lot of my writing just comes from life.
That's the trick, you see. Making the story purge some memory, getting it out of the head and into a safe place so it can be talked about without ever divulging the truth, but not letting anyone *see* the truth of it.
Some of the stories are of things I thought I never would be able to talk about. There is this one story, about a girl who meets this guy, Patrick, at a party at her own flat in college. I'd intended it to be an erotica story, but it didn't have a happy ending. Funny that -- not all of my erotica has happy endings. "A Moment in Time" most definitely didn't. Poor Laurie. Hm, but I digress.
Anyway, so there's this story that I started writing, but never finished. But just plotting it out, and going over the thing as fiction allowed me to separate the real life event from reality in my mind and place it instead into the context of the story. So at a time when I was utterly unable to talk about what had happened between myself and this one guy, I put it into "her" head, with her being the voice of the story. Instead of being my reality, it was hers. And that made it okay. I could talk about that, and it didn't hurt. Didn't feel like pouring alcohol onto this huge open wound.
I've done this a lot. Most of the stories never come to completion. But really, there isn't always a need. You see, the Voices fill the voice whether their stories are written down or merely composed in my head. They take on lives of their own and deal with things for me. This isn't some major revelation -- I've known this is how I do things for a long time. There are things which can be said and done by the things I think, and the things I write, and the characters I roleplay that simply do not fit into my everyday life. But they are still so very much a part of me. Not always parts of me I like, but I find it very difficult to create a voice that is not in some way drawn from my own depths.
Perhaps, in a way, I am a little bit insane. But very much on purpose. *With* purpose. And for me, it works.
So I suppose that yes, this is what I need to do now. Extrapolate life into a story, and create a new voice who can handle this whole situation. Who can not be so utterly stressed that she shakes during the day. Who can have a little time to herself to do things that she needs to do in order to wind down. To sleep. Or rather, so that she can *have* all that stress and I can relax. Alhough the hard part right now is that my brain is just SO busy stressing over work that there is little time to be creative.
I am obsessed by work. Possessed by work. And its driving me insane and not in a good way. *groans*
I'll get it sorted out. I give myself until Friday to find a new Voice, and relegate this hell to her. I'll feel MUCH better then.Posted by Deb Atwood at June 10, 2002 09:57 PM