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October 20, 2005

Yes, I Know. And I'm Sorry

My posts of late have lackluster and infrequent. In part, this has to do with my lack of a jobby job. Now that I'm unemployed, I am just so busy pacing my yard, smoking cigarettes, staring at my wall, coloring in my "Coloring Book For The Heartbroken" and drinking heavily that I have hardly a spare moment left for blogging. I also have no internet connection in my apartment, which can be a drag.

But the other reason for my reticence is that the thing I'm most inclined to write about right now is something of a private matter. I don't have any illusions about my "dignity" or "decency" or "politeness." In fact, it's not just the illusions I lack but, for the most part, the qualities altogether. Now, in real life, people sometimes mistake my general shyness and uninterestingness and insecurity for some kind of principled reserve. And it is true, I don't generally discuss a great deal of matters generally thought of as personal ones. The reason I don't volunteer stories news information isn't due to ethical considerations, though. The reason is much more dumb and basic than that: it doesn't occur to me to tell anyone, or it doesn't occur to me that anyone would care for me to tell them. I don't know what to say, I'm embaressed by the what I anticipate their response might be. Maybe this aversion to confessions is a reaction against growing up in a house with two psychairtrists as parents. Maybe it has something to do with being a writer, though it would probably be more accurate to say that writing has something to do with it. The need to write, I think, has to do with the profund inarticulateness I feel in life.

Writing for me is an extremely insulated process that locks me further into my skull and keeps me shut off from the world. That is why, after I have been writing for hours or days, I find it difficult to interact normally with people. I stumble away from computer dazed and stunned by the world, my perception as foggy as though I'd just had ECT, my responses dulled and out of synch. But it is also why, when I write, I have no sense of what is or is not appropriate for sharing. I can't really imagine a reader other than myself. This can be trouble. The letters I write tend to be overly forthcoming and embaressing, really. I have trouble remembering that someone else will read what I am writing. This has been a source of trouble and conflict in the past and, indeed, continues to be. This is true for writings other than letters, too. I tend to overlook the boundaries that, in real life, shame and shyness and inarticulateness create. Of course, if I read back what I've written some time after I've written it, I become deeply ashamed. Fortunately (or not) I have developed a very strong case of writer's amnesia. As soon as I've committed something to paper, a letter, especially, I immedeately forget what I wrote. It is a useful mechanism, I find.

It is taking an incredeable force of will this week to rein myself in. The problem is that it takes so much energy to restrain myself from writing on one topic that it becomes difficult to cough up the energy to write on another. Not to worry, though. I'm sure I'll slip and write something very inappropriate and ill-thought-out eventually.

And then I'll be sorry.

Posted by hissycat at October 20, 2005 03:44 PM

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