Oh, my, how pithy. Or is it profound? There is no answer that matters other than my own, because I am no longer writing how I feel. I write about who what when where why and how I am.
That is the pivot point of my integrity as a writer. I never wanted to write about how I feel. I was sick and tired of how I feel from the beginning. I may have been born sick and tired of how I feel. I have a misted, dense vision of my formative and young years where “How do you feel” is the omnipresent question. Everything was “…yes, but how do you feel?” Who the hell really cared? “How do you feel” was a clever mother’s clever trick to turn any moment or situation into a problem within me. It appears that if you keep a child focused on feelings and the internal world that child grows with neither an ability to discern where problems and circumstances truly lay, nor with an ability to function in a practical world of what is. The parental bonus is deflection from yourself as the source of all misery.
So, no, I do now want to write about how I feel. It is irrelevant. It is properly my own internal dialogue, not a way to interact with the world. I write about what I know: The world through my eyes, both real and imagined. The world through all of my senses, sense and schemata, as it is for me.
Still, there are certain words I’d love to hear through certain voices:
Mr. Weinke: "Good use of commas!"
He is not a muse, merely a grammar-obsessed 7th grade teacher who refused to let
me get away with breaking the unknowable Laws of English, no matter how well I
structured and supported the case for my own rules.
Mrs. Lowey: "May I have a copy?"
She is not a muse any more than she is a grammarian. She is a watchful,
comprehending silence. She is She Who Must Be Obeyed. She forced me
to know that I may write my own rules, and in so doing set a new standard for
creative brilliance, win her admiration, and still receive a C on the scale of
the world as it is.
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