Dear Internet, it’s been five days since my last confession. How apt that I hit thirty and just stopped. I’m alive. I’m not really sure what happened. I think writing something not sassy threw me out of a comfort zone and completely paralyzed me. I think I learned sometimes forcing yourself to do something to prove a point to yourself is not always the best idea. Unless it’s hygiene. Always force yourself to shower and brush your teeth. Have you seen how much a dentist costs? I am now twenty-two days away from returning back to my life. What an ambitious project to fix my mental health in two months and to read the fucking Iliad. Shit is long. Shit is lyrical. Everyone’s name is fucking hard.
I went to visit Mariki, which is another predominantly Muslim suburb. I’m going to turn that into a narrative. I’m just not ready to talk about it. Hopefully my fucking asshole brain hasn’t wiped the memories while I haven’t been sleeping.
I read this interview, and the author was talking about how the process of discovery is in the lead up to writing non-fiction so creating the work itself is easier (agree). Where as discovery happens simultaneous to writing when you write fiction. This is really obvious when someone else says it. like good advice.
I’m really interested in process. It’s a difficult thing to talk about cause a) this is a one-sided conversation- I believe one would call that a monologue sweetheart and b) I’m going to assume that none of you try write (maybe you should and email me your agony). I don’t know why I’m compelled to do it. I like it. Maybe it softens my thoughts, that if I’m looking at them on a page I’m not thinking them in my head. I’m forced into coherence. It’s not a fucking diary. This is totally separate to a diary. The fucking annoying thing is, I cant write this if I haven’t discovered something because it is non fiction so sitting here forcing myself to talk, like the last couple things I wrote (sorry) completely started to fray the edges of my mental capacity and was actually detrimental to my overall goal of being able to deal with life like everyone else seems to. Please tell me your trick? Is it repression? Is everyone but me emotionally repressed, medicated or enlightened? Fuck. Sometimes you just got to sit and chill with your thoughts and not work so hard on figuring them out. Omg, is that the recurring theme of patience? I don’t know how anyone stomachs patience. I don’t know how people find joy in the mundane. It’s my extremist nature. We are all dying (dramatic). It gives me a real urgency to live in the moment. I’m not saying that I accomplish anything great, I’m just saying that I savour moments which probably hinders momentum. How you gonna build a future if you’re always living in the present? One big question at a time little heroine. Don’t get over eager, it’s like riding a bike.
This author also said something about how the act of writing is hostile because you are forcing someone else into your perspective always tricking and cajoling the audience because no one cares about your dreams. Fuck that bitch was harsh, I think she’s French so you know, fine. Valid. I like stepping into someone else’s mind. Sweet relief from my own battlefield. It’s hard to see myself subjectively when writing about myself. Duh! Wouldn’t it be an interesting exercise to interview myself? (Idea basket- save for later). It is real scary that there is kind of nowhere to hide and it makes me think what makes you a writer is honesty. I have to be the same person I present on the page in real life. It’s too hard to write it any other way. This is why people kill themselves. This constant fucking catharsis of self and destruction and rebuilding of ego. No wonder I got burned out and tired. So maybe my lesson at the moment is authenticity. Wow, that’s gonna make me the most popular gal in Bala. As if I’m not fucking over opinionated enough already. This all sounds familiar, have I already agonized over this? Fuck you take one little break and now I’m senile.