Who is the person, she writes her life in fiction

I stand at the washing line listening to the birds making fun of each other and my reason for writing upon these dry bed sheets of mine is that I can’t seem to find time throughout the day to write with honesty. To tell you the truth, I’m not even quite sure how to do it. If I were to write what I practise so matter-of-fact and precise without vision of what the matter could have been or certainly was not, I may paint myself rather rough and frightening. Or, heaven forbid, with a streak of naivety. Ninety-five words in now and I am already a character, no longer a writing girl who lives on a hill with a dog.

See, my ability to concentrate has lessened since Thursday evening when she hit me with that hairbrush. My mind is thick with honeyed reminiscing of her beautiful eyes. I must admit that I have resorted to laconic replies to tired everyday questions from those who break my dreaming of her; the fibres of her corset brushed past my cheeks and the slight aroma of her locked within those fibres now, when I think back, has semblance to a light dessert, Crème brûlée perhaps. However, I will not be so daft to compare a woman with such enriching force, hard and precise as hers, to a simple custard treat. No. She is divine.

Once I had red spots in the back of my throat and being temperamental and drastically afraid of sexually transmitted diseases I went to the doctor for her advice. I opened my mouth for her, my mouth that I had once envisioned as a cavernous love hole I could feel now, with each small breath I took, was screaming ‘I am the entrance to hell’. The doctor held my tongue down with a Popsicle stick. She took a quick look and then said, ‘You can close your mouth now.’ She asked me if I had been sucking on lollies recently. I took a moment to think about this and then replied,


A look of annoyance flashed across her face and she said, ‘You have been sucking on lollies.’

I repeated, ‘No…’

She then shifted in her chair, gave me a very dirty look, placed her finger near her mouth and repeated, ‘You have been sucking on hard boiled lollies.’ She took her pen and wrote something down in her manila folder then she turned to me again and said, ‘If you suck on too many lollies you give yourself hickies in the back of your throat. I’m going to advise that you stop sucking on so many lollies.’

I nodded. ‘I can do that.'

You know, the funny thing about story writing is that the story doesn’t matter in the moment of writing it. In the moment we are only attempting to move away from the regions we are currently stuck in. I am a writer myself, a fairly shit one in my opinion, and I feel this because I have to lie to tell the truth and I find that difficult. A story is just a picture of something invisible in our lives. Some moments need one thousand words and others, none at all.

What is bothering me is that I’m not sure what honesty is anymore and I can’t figure out what needs one thousand words. Perhaps there are few things. I think people need to be contradictory to be pure. That’s what I decided over the weekend while my lover was informing me of things he has done that irritate me. I can barely understand myself so I’m unsure how I’m supposed to understand anyone else. I don’t think I need to so much. Mainly I just steal people and place them in stories and converse with them that way. They are easier to deal with and they always say the right thing at the right time, even if it’s the wrong thing to say, they say it the way I like. People have pace and their lives are arced in the most beautiful way through story, that is, if they get a good writer writing them.

I am considering writing apologetic letters to friends who have deserted me. I figure they couldn’t stand my cryptic writing about them and didn’t appreciate my lack of arc. Poor fuckers. I love them more than I could not say.

I have a cranky view on something today and it’s this node. Fuck it off! Here is my replacement node,

How to build a fictional character: a twelve step guide.

2. Crack open a watermelon and eat it with your bare hands 7. Don’t watch television

The other ten steps are for you to make up. Don't count on them working for you.