Feelings on Things

 I don’t really enjoy getting in my feelings and I always resist it until I can figure out what to do with them. Sometimes it needs a primal release, a good cry or a scream. Sometimes I just need to clean and organize because I need order in the internal noise. Sometimes I just need to take a purposeful action because executive dysfunction and impulse just lead to guilt so I’ll try to beat those. Other times o need to be messy and remind myself that I’m flawed and trying to achieve perfection will end up hurting myself or others.

But always, I avoid the immediate impulse to share. Some people might assert that the value is in those raw emotions but my experience is the exact opposite. Finding words for that rawness in retrospect is where I can express their true meaning and value. In the moment, that expression is ooga-booga levels of display and only placing value on the rawness denies what I can learn from it. I recognize raw emotion and there’s never more clarity, just opportunity to direct it in a healthy way. Anyone can have a raw emotion, few can evaluate it to help others understand or relate to it.

It’s difficult for me to introduce what feels complex without making others wonder what this verbosity is leading to and I don’t mean to seem vague or mysterious when I’m doing it. But this is the foundation of how I’m handling a difficult human experience right now. I’ll try to summarize events here before I touch on feelings once more.

At 41 years old, I believed I was experiencing early menopause. In case you don’t know much about female anatomy, 51 is the average age for menopause so signs in your 30s (where I first started experiencing hot flashes) and acceleration in the early 40s isn’t the norm. I’ve known a few women who had hysterectomies in their mid 30s, after having two or more children. One was my grandmother and this being a discussion in my family, I knew this was not the norm.

In December, I had my period early that month so I wasn’t expecting another until the New Year. I track my cycle because I understand it’s an important part of women’s health and in this case, proved it all the more true. My next period started Christmas Eve so I knew it was far too early. I was seeing my doctor in January for routine follow-up for ADHD meds so I would bring it up then.

I thought it was a fluke but brought it up anyway. I was on my period for the visit but it was strangely heavy, for longer than it is usually heavy but it was a little late for this cycle, not by much, just a couple days. Since I was on my period, she scheduled me the next week for a Pap smear. I brought up ‘birth control’ but she got defensive and I realized she was likely against it due to beliefs but also that she took it the wrong way. She seemed to be less judgmental when I corrected wanting it as because I believed I needed the hormones to regulate this. I was somewhat relieved that she was amenable to the reason but also angry and sad for other women who are very much entitled to have that choice and shouldn’t have to have difficulty finding that option…

The Pap smear was painful but no more than usual. This was my second ever and the first showed no abnormalities. I got this because I was overdue and was told I wouldn’t need another in five years with a negative HPV result. No problem. She did a thorough breast exam, vaginal exam and swab and rectal exam. Not fun, but I know how to check out mentally so that I’m not emotional during these things. Pelvic pressing was actually somewhat painful so this is when she referred me for an ultrasound.

Luckily, the Pap smear came back normal, no HPV. Expected, if only because I’m not sexually active (another fact that is often treated like me being dishonest or maybe ashamed of promiscuity I’m being ‘prudish’ about). I know that fibroids and cysts and polyps are not affected by whether or not you have sex and just one of those anomalies of being human.

However, I start my period before the ultrasound. A little over a week before the last one ended. Two days were light, heavy before the ultrasound and seems to taper off but it’s sort of heavy on the day of. Not ideal but doable. The best time is right after the period finishes but I now know predictable is not in the cards for me anymore.

So I go into the ultrasound and I’m really comforted by this fast-talking woman who is sorry/not sorry that she will walk/talk me through it. But I’m not nervous at all, just ready to empty a very full bladder I needed for the pelvic exam. It all goes well and then the transvaginal part is next so I empty my bladder in the adjoining private bathroom and remove the lower clothing and drape a sheet. The wand she uses she compares to a tampon but honestly, it was actually far more comfortable. I smell blood the whole time because of my period but I imagine it’s part of the reason there’s no discomfort other than that slow leaking sensation. I know that relaxing the muscles makes these exams less painful but there was really no pain throughout anyway.

I know that technicians are not allowed to give away anything they see so I don’t ask and just answer her questions. Within a half hour, I’m done and she gives me the privacy to clean up with washcloths and get dressed. She tells me they’ll call on Monday.

After being home for a couple hours, my doctor calls and I know this isn’t good because doctors call promptly when something is wrong but I’m calm. My intuition told me in December something is still not right so the Pap was just one small victory. They couldn’t find my right ovary and suspect a tumor behind my uterus.

And I know from having one before (in my foot) that tumors are often benign, not malignant/cancerous so I wasn’t upset. I told her as much and patiently waited for what came next. She is arranging a CT scan and a referral to a gynecologist, recommended a male (I don’t have a preference now that I’m familiar with the process), one that also does surgeries in case that is needed, it will be quicker to get me in. 

I know that a hysterectomy is probable to remove all possibilities of it getting worse. If you know anything about me, you know this isn’t traumatizing as I’ve never wanted to give birth. At this age, it’s dangerous; any pregnancy after 35 is considered geriatric and high risk anyway. I wasn’t sure about hysterectomy options but I looked them up; most are outpatient and minimally invasive, healing in 4-6 weeks. The one for cancer is much like a C-section but removes everything, requires a small hospital stay (2-3 days) and a proper healing time of 8 weeks. For reference, my foot took half a year to heal enough to relearn how to walk on it and several more years for feeling to return properly. Extremities take longer but this is a comparatively smaller healing time. Complications for all types are relatively the same otherwise.

Of course, I was curious about how many people seem to think women have the same ‘use it or lose it’ risks that men’s sexual health is governed by and once again felt sad by the lack of women’s information without heavy bias. Abstinence pages are about warning women about the dangers of promiscuity (moral damnation) or ones trying to press the ‘cons’ of not have heterosexual sex and you really have to dig for the truth that none of these ‘cons’ are anything that self-pleasure doesn’t provide— yet with none of the cons of infection or risks from hygiene and fluids of a sexual partner. None of these search pages were tailored to the probability of abstinence by choice, the presence of asexuality. And I almost cried when they even emphasized that trauma and mental health are no more factors of this preference than it is for any other orientation. 

Planned Parenthood, you were that site and this is why I donate to you. Only you had at least some insight into my own concerns and once again sealed it that there is no medical consequence for not having sex or beating children. 

In my research, there are increased risks for cancers and complications due to childbirth though. This is why it’s very important that women are not bullied into sex or motherhood or social choices that benefit men without those considerations. 

Nevertheless, I could now be certain in conversations with people I care to educate that this is not due to something I didn’t do, should have done or could have done. Because whether men intend to or not, some are still conditioned to question our choices in the consequences of having female parts.

So this is where I am. Still bleeding heavily 5 days from when I started my period too early, prepared for the worst and hoping for the best. And what are my feelings? The usual. Apprehensive, uncertain, strangely relieved. I’m used to having my concerns dismissed when scans or tests can’t find anything. It’s surreal when there’s something they can see, real plans to tackle it. It’s not just ‘maybe fibroids’ to watch for changes. It’s something and there’s a plan. I’m not quite sure what to feel about it. I’m lethargic, likely from the blood loss, but still managing to attend to basic care. Is it cancerous, is it not, what’s next? I didn’t really know where to go with all of this but I didn’t want to announce it all over social media but I did want to put it somewhere publicly. Because the obstacles for women are still too many. Because the information considering asexuality is hard to find clear answers among the biases, always suspicious of the reasons a woman is looking at her sexuality and her sexual health. Defiance or shame, always appealing to our feelings, scarily blocking just the facts of our bodies and our being.

I want answers. I want feelings. Mostly, I want to hope that I will get the best care and begin to heal. And live to fight for those women I empathized with along the way, the women I couldn’t just be glad I’m not, but wanted to someday have access to choice and be heard before it’s too late. 

Ladies, I hear you and I hope my voice helps you too. All of you deserve safety and health and access to education to make the best of choices for you. This is why I can’t be silent. We all need to know this isn’t a fight we stand against alone.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

And Other Shit Rich Cunts Say When They Dissolve Your Trust Fund. But that's a long headline, no?

Here's some back story. I knew something was up when I found out my aunt had talked my grandma into a joint bank account. Mash up assets and all that. What's one of the ways a trust fund can be dissolved? A quick Google search will tell you outstanding medical bills. So, with her entire millions of dollars' fortune (and I know my grandmother's SMALLEST bank account contained $15 million, btw) tied up with my aunt's and no way to distinguish any of it was my grandmother's... VOILA! Dissolved trust approved.

Now, I wasn't slated to received millions. Actually, a modest but life-changing $20K. I could've gotten my teeth fixed, my future convention booths stocked, my equipment upgraded. 

I know; don't cry over spilled milk. But I hope an elephant sits on the bitch and crushes her.

It makes sense now when my mom told me that my grandma in her last moments, delirious and desperate, kept repeating that she was going to Hell. No one in my family is particularly religious, but her father was a preacher, so I can imagine she had some residual beliefs. Yes, grandma, if there is a Hell, you'll probably be there. If souls have any transcendence or punishment, karma isn't looking good for you. But unlike you, my aunt has no guilt. Only pure entitlement to all the money you squandered in your life.

It's simply something worth venting about but all the more motivation to make it big. Let the bitch try to share a spotlight with me in those moments I make a mark and I'll have her ass kicked out.

Because throughout a life of being the dirty family secret, my mom's love child, I've learned to be sweet and caring, but guarded and vigilant. I've learned that family can be the coldest blooded and that friends can be the family that warms your heart.

My aunt dicked us out of a better spot in life. Not in class or any such societal bullshit, just a chance to fix everyday inconveniences and expedite some dreams.

I don't want this to be only a negative post, but I don't often dig very deep, so I'm feeling generous enough to give a torn piece of myself.

However, I've been working on my dolls. New cape, boot soles made of clay and hardening to be cut later, shoulder wedge built to sculpt the shoulder guards. Writing is coming along. Love me or hate me, I'm feeling my groove again. I'm excited to have found a cheap cube organizer set to organize my craft, writing, and creative stuff better so I'm not always digging in the four corners of my room. You'd be impressed by the game of Tetris this girls works in, but I've always been resilient and resourceful.

Securing a better life for my nephews has always been a priority. I've said before; those boys saved my life and renewed my purpose just by being born into this world. There is no way in hell I'm squandering my life when I have them looking up to me to guide them. They're so smart and sweet and talented and bright-eyed, and it fills me with pride that I am responsible for such wonderful human beings. Sure, I can take credit for how they are turning out, but I think we're all born with something that guides the people we become and I could never take all the credit. They have worked hard to be amazing young people too.

Don't sweat the small stuff, they say. What's difficult is sorting the small from the big piles of shit. From sorting out those who love you and those who just love to torment you. In the end, you must find that guide within and reach for what YOU think is most important in life.

And I hope the stuff that moves you doesn't harm anyone else and helps you and those around you grow and change the world for the better. Be the better person... but maybe don't think you are.

Comparisons don't do you much good. Just be better than who you were yesterday and don't worry about where you rank. Let the ones who inspire you lead you up and the ones who detract you fall behind.

Love, peace and chicken grease!

Love Is In the Air

Let's talk about love.

No, not my love life (or absence of one). If I could lead in with a personal anecdote, then what comes to mind is one of my favorite 'love' songs "Fairytale of New York". And no, not the famous one by the Pogues but the cover my friend Joe introduced me to by the punk band No Use for a Name (with Cinder Block from Tilt doing the female vocals). It's one of those songs where my young dysfunctional experience with relationships really took notice. No matter the version, the song runs the gauntlet of a young starry-eyed couple with less than ideal life choices to their disgruntled older versions sore at each other over their regrets. Even then, the last choral block shows that the blame blankets the underlying reasons that a good life would have meant jack shit without the other after all.

It's a raunchy modern day tale with a timeless theme and that's the beauty of it. You've heard the saying that someone is 'in love with the idea of love'. Or that once it passes, what foundation keeps people together or sets them drifting apart as strangers? When I was younger, I have to admit, the cat and mouse of people resisting their feelings was a huge draw (and still is). I've seen modern angles try to dismantle it as enabling men to keep pursuing a woman who has no interest, that he might win her eventually, but are readily skipping over the subtle signs that the woman DOES show an initial interest but for a myriad of reasons (being hurt before, not wanting to take the risk, overwhelmed by those feelings), she makes a show of being cold and disinterested to test if her initial attraction is both reciprocated and lasting. The person she loves is not being tested so much as she is testing herself. What's even more interesting is when it's not just the man or the woman (or the man/man, woman/woman-- gender is only an example here) putting the brakes on it, but both. Either they sabotage each other's resistance without trying or situations make it unavoidable to trust each other or remove those barriers.

I like a dysfunctional love. Many tales can easily support a natural and healthy love, but there's something clever and stimulating in those antagonistic developments that I've always found irresistible. Probably why, even though it's a horrible situation when taken literally, I find I Love the Way You Lie with Eminem and Rhianna somewhat satisfying. No, not because of the gut-wrenching violence, but because of the destructive qualities of the 'heart wants what it wants' frustration. The terrifying way that love and hate dance just as hot in the same fire.

Writing a love story at all used to be a source of frustration for me. Not because of 'inexperience' but because it's hard to keep a fire burning. I've always hated how at the climax, there was always a 'happily ever after'. In fairy tales, it was quaint, but in books, it was a cop-out. Unfortunately, the aftermath I dreamt for that couple was usually pretty mundane and boring. My mom's parents were best friends and it was beautiful, but it was still... boring. I don't begrudge anyone their happily-ever-after, but what I looked for in a tale of love was the promise that they'd have more heated fights and explosive make-ups.

And how do you do that? You don't want them to be abusers or aggravatingly resistant even after they've become lovers, or purposely contradictory, or prudish, etc. but you get the point. Too often angst is the name of the game, but no matter how much I wrote it, it always fell apart. In fact, even in the most successful examples of it, I got bored just reading it. 

Lasting love in stories seems to thrive on its smart-asses. I don't know what it is, but you need at least one smart-ass in the picture at all times to really keep things going. It doesn't even have to be within the couple itself (although they're going to end up flat if they're always harmonizing).

Again, I know it's a taste thing, but I've just never really been able to jibe with anything short of dysfunction. No matter how straight-laced my friends seem, there's always some underlying dysfunction that seals our foundations. People who are too bright and shiny scare the absolute shit out of me. Namely because we all have cracks and the ones sealed up too tight often burst at the seams in the worst possible ways. Love too perfect is the same way. I'd rather know someone's kinks straight up than be 'surprised' by the sheer horror of an incompatible fetish.

I wouldn't say I've ever considered love to be central to my stories. In edits, I pass over those parts because they come naturally to me, whereas I obsess over the lore and world building and plots everywhere else far more. By comparison to other books, it's probably more than most, but I'm not ashamed to say that if the plot supports a bit of romance, I don't shy away. Too many female writers are shamed or scared away from it, threatened with having their work relegated to the 'trashy' realm of romance. Although 'trashy' was never a catch-all for romance and I've read many with rather brilliant plots. Of course, nowadays all generalizations are offensive. Also, all distinctions are still attempting to be generalizations so it's a fuck-all. Do your thing.

I've written a lot of love sub-plots. Of all of them, there was one particular storyline that visited me quite a bit-- the story of an arrogant young woman and a big dumb blacksmith. Ha, I know it already sounds like a trope that's been done to death, but it's the details that kept tying me into their story deeper along the way. When the reader is first introduced to them, the girl nearly runs into him while he's blocking the entrance. She's talking a mile a minute and he's just nodding his head in awe. She thinks he's incredibly stupid to take her abuse, but he remains grateful when her father hires him since their town has no resident blacksmith. He turns out to be the nephew of her mentor, a librarian there. The young woman has a twin brother who actually befriends him and her dad also likes him. She doesn't really have a reason to hate him so much, but her mother sides with her, which takes some of the edge off of her unreasonable dislike.

As it turns out, the blacksmith had a hard life where he came from. Orphaned as a boy, his aunt was married to an abusive man that refuses to let her take him in. The only thing that saved him from homelessness was the local blacksmith noticing he was rather large for his age and took the boy in as apprentice. The blacksmith was not a kind man, but the boy learned quickly that playing dumb afforded him a sort of advantage with people. When his aunt's husband died, she could no longer stay and she asked her nephew to leave with her, but he refused, insisting that smithing was the only life he knew. She tells him where she is going. Years later, the blacksmith dies and that is what sparks him to look for his aunt again.

As for the girl, life had never been particularly hard for her. Her father and mother were considered heroes after their exploits and they founded the town she was born and grew up in. She and her brother were born both gifted and disabled and their uncle was on a mission to figure out why. She would have been happy to spend every day with her brother, but as a teenager, his interest ran towards other females. The blacksmith coming along was just one place to direct her loneliness and rejection. It doesn't escape her notice that other women seem to be obsessed with him in the same way her brother was interested in other women.

Begrudgingly, she realizes she can't put off getting her bow fixed when the grip breaks. She kind of hopes he'll tell her he's not a fletcher, but apparently he is. He agrees to fix it, but says nothing of payment, which only makes her call him stupid again.

Events transpire in the story which result in the twins' uncle dying and them left with newfound powers that 'fix' their disability, but make it obvious they can't stay where they've lived their whole lives either. Her brother can no longer speak and she's scared of leaving. Her father makes sure they're well-packed but surprises them by telling them the blacksmith will be going with them. She tries to put up a fight, but her usually malleable father is immovable in this. Before they leave, the blacksmith returns her bow to her. Not only is the grip replaced, but it is silver and expertly carved with the image of a bird that has special meaning to her.

It's not a magic moment that forms their bond either. In fact, the more she knows about him, the more reasons she would have to like him, the more she fights it. She begins to hate herself because this man shows he is very willing to die for her, but she can't manage to soften her heart towards him. It's almost karmic how much her own powers penalize her disloyalty, how much they demand from her and how unbreakable his devotion is towards her regardless.

Their relationship is one that followed me more than any others and is one I still visit fondly. I saw them similarly imprisoned in lives that couldn't be more different and ultimately, it was their attitudes that made all the difference. She who had everything starts to see the downside to everything while he had nothing to look forward to and always sees the bright side. 

Now here's the question that sometimes get posed that seems to make all the difference-- did the romance revolve around the plot or did the plot revolve around the romance? In this synopsis, you wouldn't be wrong to assume it's a love story. However, ultimately, the three books in this particular trilogy actually spin around the revival of an old wild magic. The mythology is loosely based on Celtic folklore, namely the strife between the Fomoire and the Danae. Despite the former generation being so keen on finding the truth, they are also bound to conceal a very dangerous secret. The wild magic has elemental qualities but they are broken-- each one carries a very specific penalty for the user, demanding everything from life to death, to free will and memory. While they fight to survive what they never wanted, they fight to find some semblance of a normal life.

The simplest answer is that I never use romance as the plot device. Ultimately, love doesn't conquer all and life just sucks sometimes. I also don't pretend like it's taboo. Giving my characters privacy is absurd (yes, I've heard this as an actual argument). While I enjoy the romantic subplots, it's still more thrilling to build the worlds moving in, around and through them.

I love the chaos of a grand scale. I love diving in and out of detail and the big picture at dizzying speeds. I love love. I write violence that makes me cringe too. What I really want from a book is one that makes you think, so often it's a labor to pull back from explaining too much, to give the reader some room to guess and dream. I read things that piss me off, if only to decide what about it is something I want to actively avoid.

I'm just going to wander a bit from here since love has run its course. 😂

Too often, we see low blows in writing. We see advertising and stories written solely to evoke negative responses because it works, but it's also why it's NOT the kind of writer I want to be. I would take obscurity over infamy. If I am to trigger an emotional response, I don't want it to be because I threw my work in the fire and pissed on it. These days, there is just too much being 'loved' for being mediocre. Yes, I know-- that's a statement that calls to taste. Yet often these artists are willingly admitting that it's crap and it worked. Because of this, advertisers and media have taken to feeding us all that sucks to get our attention rather than the less effective positivity in our work.

But there are still deserving ones that rose through their own appeal. Harry Potter and Game of Thrones, however you feel about them personally, did not rise through calculated negativity but through sheer interest. They reflected the stories that the authors truly wanted to write, not just a marketing strategy on what they think everyone wanted to see. Yeah, we all hope it goes there, but seeing as how there's no guarantee you can successfully just write for a market, I'm still convinced that writing the story you want to read is going to give you the better chance.

Where I'm at in my current book is devoid of any actual romance. Flirting and such, always, but not every plot really has room for it. Probably why I keep coming back to it. In any case, absolutely embrace your love stories. Continue to redefine genres and put your foot down to defend it, if need be. I know I'm always going to deal with assumptions on my abilities based on some pretty lumpy generalizations of my gender, race, lack of religion, etc. 

I do get that stereotypes even exist for a reason, but I've also believed that rather than assuming them to be the rule, they're just something you can laugh at when they prove to be true. I don't hate pumpkin spice, but they're not my white girl crack either. I don't avoid something I love just because it's become a way people can pretend they've figured me out. That's actually a terrific way to lure them in to trap them.

I don't see this ever growing old, but you never know...

You Can Make Me (But You Can't Break Me)

I hesitate to make a claim that bold because I know damn well the lengths people will go to break me, both as a woman and as a human being. Is it a little sad to say that I'm aware I'm not invincible and I'm not proposing a challenge to physically cripple or harm me, just making a stand as a writer?

Regardless, this is what I mean-- While fans and trolls can promote me in terms of popularity and sales, there is nothing that can be said that will make me give up my dream to write and draw. I've heard it all-- some people can find no fault (and can offer me no room to grow) while some people absolutely hate things I've done (also offering nothing to improve on). However, good or bad, the words are showing that people are paying attention.

Often that is the way people will strike the hardest. It's not the complements or insults that cast the worst shadows, but the silence. People like Trump, attention whores, would slap the water but eventually sink if we just stopped talking about him. It's why many people have resorted to becoming infamous, eschewing quality and integrity in favor of staying in the spotlight. At first, it did hurt that I couldn't get people to read my work. However, I wondered about the path of my stories and my work when the temptation of money and burden of popularity colored it.

Green can be a lovely color, but often lends tragic results in combination with others. You have a little green and it's never quite as green as you like, so you want more. You gather it and wonder if it's as green as it could be. And why the hell are you not happy with it when so many people's only taste of green is envy?

I know that money isn't everything, but the people who say that most often have more than what is comfortable or not much at all. Rich people can be the most blasé about it, but also live lives so effortlessly comfortable, blind to the things that are auto-paid or complimentary or expected, the red carpets rolled out that they never look down at while their noses are turned up. Poor people can be so used to the exhausting struggle to have enough of it to throw at basic needs that they prefer chicken farming to the endless effort every little detail of survival makes necessary. So many of us are sick of money-- both the dependency and that it's hard to make it fill all the holes in our lives that we think it should.

Of course, I think about money. Taking on writing and art as my primary contribution has not been a road to financial comfort. However, I have never felt like I am more in my element than when I work on it. Many people unfailingly believe that if you do what you love, you never work a day in your life. It's not exactly true taken literally because many people realize a dream is harder work than they're willing to risk when they do make a go of it. Even the people that stick with it have crippling moments where their resolve is tested. Some even admit to quitting for years but still longing for it, just don't want to repeat those mistakes but unsure of what other routes are available. What is true about it is that the work is a compulsion that exceeds duty. Even when it's hard, you're left with a determination that is hard to describe with any word short of passion or love. It's intense even when it's frustrating. You could throw everything down and walk away and you find yourself ending up in front of it again. And yes, time spent doing it is gone so fast. Your body may feel the full 14 hours, but your mind is confused by what time it is. Didn't you just blink and the hours are gone? You go back through what you did and sometimes look at it in a state of wonder. Did you really just do that?

Nothing can compete with that. It's just a fact. You can tell me I suck or I'm pretentious or perverted or boring or confusing-- pick your adjective-- but you can't say anything to me I haven't already beat myself with at some point. You can't amplify it in numbers or voices or threaten to blacklist me. You can pick it apart or slam it with bad reviews. I can't say it doesn't hurt, but it doesn't stop my drive to keep going. Unless I see some constructive criticism, I don't let it lay on a nerve. It's small and insignificant compared to the fire burning to keep going.

Finishing up, I do want to say that you can find fault with my views on this, but what matters is that I am doing something that makes me happy. And others as well. What strangers think I should do will not play into what I can and want to do. While I am full grateful for support and opportunities to grow, negativity has no place in my focus.

*I do apologize if any generalizations are taken as a blanket statement. That's never the intention. I do have experience with wealth in different extremes and I know there are exceptions. It doesn't change the fact that money is a poisonous crutch to so many people and we need it just as much as we don't want to. We don't want to care about it but we're aware of its power. It's not a perfect world and there's no perfect way to sum it up, but it is important to discuss our impressions and experiences in a way that makes it clear we are aware that they are opinions are not facts.

The Distance and the Intimacy: The Love Affair with Writing

We're all consumers before we are creators, no matter how much our parents/caregivers might have insisted the massive dumps in our diapers were a sight to behold. Learning faces through the blur of first sight, hearing every strange noise to prickle the ear-- assuming we're born with all senses intact, that is. (Perhaps this is why some deprivation of sense is fascinating to me, but I'll get to that.)

What do I mean by distance and intimacy? Well, not all of us really know that our 'passions' have longevity so there's a time issue involved. Sometimes, and for long periods of time, we may break up with our passions, cheat on them, all the while pining for them. Sometimes a particularly sensitive piece creates a different phenomenon of distance/intimacy. Sometimes we need to blubber and roll in the juices and sometimes we need to be the harsh logical judge of it. We get through the passion parts and then poke, edit, play, indulge, reject, accept-- it's 12 stages of grief and euphoria, but we each fill in the blanks. I've said before-- ebb and flow and some of the best writing I've seen uses the push and pull of development, to align with the very real state of many struggles. Something the characters move on their motivations, sometimes things have to happen to them. Do we take the omniscient look and hash it out in great detail or do we limit it to experience the spotty details alongside the character? Neither one is king when it comes to depth. From any perspective, we can get uncomfortably close or coldly analytical.

There are a lot of aspects to me, for one, that people try to explain. It's especially trendy these days to assume to speak for others, even when the subject is more than capable. I suppose you could narrow down my attitudes to trauma, whether it be my sexuality, my draw towards art and writing, my lifestyle. You could correlate things simply, but there's more to that history than I will ever feel comfortable writing or explaining, especially when it pertains to the 'stressors' outside of myself, the people that did and still can terrorize me if I step over the line. I will not give them that piece of fame, to ride on whatever failures or successes I have in my life with association. If you have bogeymen in your life, give them to your fictions. A memoir is the thing to write if you outlive them all.

That being said, there are 'other' things. Things I stopped trying to understand, things I use and learn to master as much as possible and I don't aim to be mysterious with those so I'll describe this the best I can without using labels that might give you false impressions.

I've struggled with neuropathic issues from a very early age. For no apparent reason or stressor, I've temporary lost my sight or hearing or sense of touch, or had them 'heightened' to unbearable and painful levels. No amount of searching ever gave me answers and in most cases, I was too afraid to tell. I had some wonderful teachers along the way that saw me melting down in my confusion and helped me, no questions, no words. Sometimes it was just a space to cry in their office, sometimes it was me interrupting to go to the bathroom. The counselor, for some reason, really liked me, even gave me her home phone number and told me to call if I needed it, made sure all my teachers knew that I could leave class any time I needed to (on days I bothered to show up, I didn't leave class at all-- kind of an all-or-nothing when it comes to showing up). It's not that these people thought I was suicidal, but looking back, I think they knew my 'other' better than books or doctors had any grasp of back then. They also saw my potential. Another thing I couldn't see without hindsight, but learned to trust some people when they said good things about me.

Because I don't see what's in front of me or, rather, rarely do. I see things more clearly looking back, sometimes beating myself up for how stupid or ineffective I was in the moment. I became adept at trying to recreate the person I wanted to be, to try to learn to be a person that can see the moment or even a little ahead, learn to anticipate the world around me. Somewhere in the invention of myself, I became a storyteller. I never saw a place for THAT (I never could get the taste for lying) in my life, but there was a pocket I'd stumbled on where worlds did wait. Despite all the characters and events happening over 'there', it could still be a lonely place, not a place of inside jokes and the things I could talk about with others who weren't familiar. So I wanted to find ways to show people. I was already building those places, learning to express through art and writing what I struggled to say.

An honest place, one I have trouble lying about too. It's not a place that can actually speak for my desires, doubts or fears, just a gathering ground from my journey in this world. And I don't have these fascinating stories of world travel, but I can simulate it through the means that I have. It's maddening, a bloom of chaos and beauty. It can be safe and warm or frigid and frightening. It affects moods that people can't see the reason for, and sometimes I don't even know why I feel or act the way I do. It can be a real bastard trying to recreate it for the sharing. Yeah, sometimes I thought about giving up because creation and using it to funnel what I don't really understand is never a safe place. It's erratic and it's not structured. Because of that, writing...

Writing holds structure or none at all. The only demand is what you intend for it. I wrote stories for school, but then I wrote stories in school when I was supposed to be doing something else. Just little stories. 'Born to Play Video Games' and 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Kitties'... (I loved the Turtles, but the idea of drawing humanoid cats was just so appealing.) I wrote poems when I fell in love with rhythm and rhyme. It was music and color in words alone. Alongside this passion, always came the impulse and whimsy of 'doodling'. I love that word too, doodling. So often it was said to me in an attempt to belittle it or guilt me for wasting time, but doodling and noodling about-- those things brought me closer to a feeling of rightness. Doodling has brought me closer to some of the most amazing people in my life-- my best friends, family, and my friend's children especially. No matter how much adulting pressures my drawing to be 'more', kids always give me this surreal sense of expertise I forget to see sometimes. They're not comparing me to 'masters' or ticking off all they've liked better; they're capable of just loving it for what it is. (Not unique to kids, by the way-- my best friends always seem to lift me up like this too. Also people who are terrible at lying, but are also likely to clam up if they don't want to hurt my feelings either.)

It's hard to say whether I can make my characters and worlds resonate the same way they do with me. I'm not someone who can see the hook, the blurb, the simplification of the big picture. My love affair with writing and creating is selfish but it wants to be generous. It can feel superficial, it can feel overly deep. Courageous and cowardly. I can't lie, but sometimes I can omit or gloss over, defense mechanisms for survival and a habit I try to break.

I write because... it's too big to contain. Because otherwise it can leak out where I don't want it to. Just like my neuropathic struggles, it's not about the cure, but working with the intuitive treatment of it. Writing is often a sensitive organism, sometimes needing compassion, sometimes needing tough love. Raising kids-- much the same. You treat every kid the same and they lose sight of what could motivate them to improve or change. I don't discipline my nephews the same, nor reward them the same and when they notice this, I explain the circumstances, let them see the logic (the punishment fits the crime and so on). Almost always, a punishment or a reward merits a discussion, but there is also a lot of time for play, contemplation, or things being what they will be. I never wanted to be a parent, but like most labels, it's not important. These little guys grew on me and the one thing I want to give them are tools to maneuver through an unfair, unsympathetic, confusing world.

I write because it's not an exaggeration to say they saved me. I call them my little heroes. I knew it would never be fair for a human being to inherit my issues, but I did need 'new life' to remind me of the one the world tried to beat out of me. I did find myself and it wasn't just through me. It was all the things they helped me see-- family/friends, writing, drawing, music. I didn't need to 'have kids' to learn to look ahead. I just needed to open myself to the 'other' things.