It’s probably a fool’s task to write a post that won’t be read by its intended audience or, even if it is, will be willfully misunderstood because it won’t agree with preconceptions about who’s who and what’s what. But I’m a writer for a reason. Writing is my chosen way to communicate. It’s my way of working through my thoughts and ideas. Writing is the place where I feel the most comfortable—the most at home. As I said in an earlier post, this is my time of year to reflect and clean the house named Becky.
LiveJournal has been, for over three years, a room in my home. If you’ve read me for any length of time, you understand that my actual, physical home—what we call The Compound—is my sanctuary. It’s not only where I live and celebrate living with my family and my friends, it’s also where I work. It’s important to me to keep it in order, to keep it peaceful, clear of negativity, strife, and turmoil.
I can’t always do that. Life is messy; I understand this. To some degree, I embrace life’s messes, accidents, sudden turnabouts, because I want to learn from them, to blend them into who I am and how I view the world, and of course, if for no other reason that makes sense to me, because those things can be quite useful in fiction. Other writers understand this: You can never turn it off. Whatever’s happening in front of you—horrible or wonderful—there’s a little voice in your head that says, How can I use this?
Oddly, I see that as a blessing. It provides a place for detachment, for pulling back and seeing a bigger picture, for not being overwhelmed by the moment. However, I’m not a writing machine. I’m human and just as susceptible to shock, cruelty, discord, and unkindness as any other human being.
