I write only because there is a voice inside of me that will not be still. It shakes within me like the ‘89 earthquake, tearing down any buildings in its path. It forces chimneys to stumble and crack into driveways. But even beyond all these obstacles, you stand in my way. I know I have to get people to leave me; they stand in my way of what I hope to achieve. I know I have to make them back down with my words that are dripped in fake, unforgiving saccharine, hidden underneath a layer of sharpness. Stand in my way, and I swear it’ll be the biggest regret of your life.
I begin to question the morality of the voice inside of my head. It swirls around the synapses of my mind and it’s bigger than I am— a Jack and the Beanstalk type of situation. The voice always wants to strike and charge at the enemy and tell enemies the way I see them (weak and feeble). And she has no disregard for feelings, her ability to break people into dust be replaying their actions, reporting them back like a tape recorder but it’s live and in person and people then sit in front of me in awe and in denial. The truth stings, but they’re still in denial and I take careful note of this.
The people, places, and things that I’ve encountered in my young life always find a way into my storytelling and as far as the people are concerned, I question whether I’m painting an accurate picture of them. I don’t want their portrait to make them come off as selfish, but it’s the truth. And then I play around with the truth and I feel like I’m violating my own code of ethics because I never want people to look bad, but I want people to look the way they are; they’re just puzzle pieces of broken promises, souls rupturing because they can’t keep their “hearts” to themselves and they wear their “hearts” on their sleeve but it’s really a sad excuse to spread their legs for everyone who comes their way. And then they run, tail between their legs eyes cast down towards the ground because they’ve been defeated once again, the road of loneliness stretched and there’s a river between the part of the soul you value versus the part of the soul that seeks attention.
But the truth isn’t my fault, it’s just an accurate depiction of how I see these people. These puppets with faces twisted into one look: shame.
And am I shameful for intertwining these realities within my stories? Am I shameful for listening to the age old advice of “writing what you know”?