The weekly good is that writing is a place to be real, even when the rest of the world isn't.
It's strange to me that sometimes I go through my whole day, tied, bound, fettered to situations and people that I cannot escape. What is stranger is that I have no place that is as warm and welcoming to my grief, pain, indecision, truth..than my writing.
I do try to talk to people, but as a good friend of mine says to me often, "People are messy."
Words are never messy. They are loyal and steadfast. Yes, sometimes they are lazy and do not line up the way I want them to, but they always work hard trying. Words are good places for complex feelings and loneliness, private joys and gladness.
People, not so much. There is trust, but only to a select few, the ones who understand and who see the layers. Not everyone has that skill, to see layers.
Sometimes I try to share my real self with people, long since gone. I talk to Auden and Austen, Tolsoy and Wright. They are all very good listeners, silent. Other times I try to talk to real people, living. It does not always go so well.
And that is what draws me into storytelling and keeps me there. It is real in a story, and I can be real inside of it.
Sometimes I suffer from terrible headaches, because I forget this truism. Then it occurs to me to put my feelings into a story, and suddenly, I can handle being in the world. Naked.