I’ve saved three drafts tonight, and dodged I don’t know how many personal bullets.
I wonder how many writers let their unconscious script their writing, and thus their lives?
For me, by draft three I knew these were conversations – or, rather, drafts – to share with her.
And I’m sure we will learn something and we will grow of it.
Mostly, I’m terrified of being thirty and having someone to let down other than myself; for I have let down myself enough, which, in itself, is a terribly private confession – but I do not pretend perfection; I only claim to know myself – as any good writer ought.
I think the most difficult and brave thing in a relationship is knowing how to not project your personal bullshit onto your lover – how to not displace the guilt and insecurities into blame, creating a drama you can use as an outlet for your own stress.
I admit, my business is not where I want it to be.
I admit, commitment becomes somehow more frightening with age.
I admit, I get lonely too.
I am human.
But in my humanity, I am magnificent. For as a writer, I get to decide whether I will clear the collective unconscious, lessening the burden of guilt by confessing my sins, or whether I will saddle it with the debt of a drama I have never paid.
So, I write about what it means to be human. To sip whiskey on your balcony at X:15 am and confess your petty sins, which others will always crucify you for later anyway.
I wish everything would be perfect when I awake, but alas, the future takes time.
And maybe on draft number five, I’ll finally feel alright.