Thursday, November 06, 2003
An addendum to today's entry, and to yesterday's:
It occurred to me yesterday, as we were driving about in the rain, Dresden Dolls (or some such) playing on the radio, that, truthfully, I'm a pretty loathsome person and, if readers have trouble with my characters, what the hell would they ever make of me?
Wait a sec. Slow down. I'm gettin' ahead of myself. Or behind myself. Whatever.
Here's the thing. As Middle America (it's still out there; I glimpse it from afar sometimes) reckons personality, I'm a trainwreck of neuroses, deviance, questionable morality, and antisocial behavior. I'm funny looking (on this planet, at least). I'm queer. I'm coming up on forty and act about twenty-seven. I'm only vaguely responsible, when the mood strikes me. I'm reclusive, hate telephones, and, when I'm not dressed like a biker or a hired killer in a Hong Kong action flick, I look like 1897 ran headlong into 2097 and kept going. Sometimes I talk too loudly, because I'm not used to being around people and talking. I never visit my family (though, after years of near estrangemnet, we're on good terms again). I couldn't remember a birthday if my life depended on it. I have had more addictions than I care to recount. I'm selfish. Most of the time, my belief system would be considered just east of crackpot, a few miles west of peculiar. I'm a pack rat. I talk to myself. I'm a hypochondriac, but refuse to see doctors regularly. I won't throw away fingernail clippings or my own hair. I have poor judgement in most matters, especially as relates to money, choice of friends (I am getting better about this), and dietary habits.
There is a point. I'm coming to it.
Now, an author, an honest author, the sort of author I taught myself to be, can do one thing and one thing only. She can write what she knows. And, even though I am a fantasist, my primary job is to write about people. All I know about people comes from myself and my own experiences. That's my data set. Well, that and television and books and movies. The people I've known in my lifetime have not been paragons of normalcy or middle-class virtue or whatever the hell else it is that gleets like Mr. Daniel Jolley and all the gleets before him need if they are to find a character sympathetic. Tough titties. This is what I know. This is me. This is what I write. This is all I can write, because this is what I know, this is me, and so on, and on, and on, and on. I often wish it were otherwise, but it isn't and I doubt it ever shall be. And I will not be a dishonest writer. I have at least a shred of decency.
Gods, I hope my agents don't read this...
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