I've probably said this before, but it's strange blogging every day. I've been asked if it feels weird if I don't blog. Kinda. Not so much for the routine aspect, though that definitely plays a part. Originally, one of the reasons, I started blogging (there were many) was to find something good to say about every day. Yeah, that didn't wind up happening because some days just aren't good. But I did get used to saying something about every day. And because I'd say something about every day, I now have three years of records of what I was doing, thinking, watching, reading, studying on any given day.
Last night, while having non-coffee with my newly-introduced-to-each-other friends, I got asked a question that I was not expecting and that I probably didn't respond to in the best way. One of my friends asked if she could reread my first novel. I didn't even think about it. I just said no.
Naturally she asked why, but all I would say was "no" or, "that book is never leaving my closet" or, "I'm never touching that book again". I probably seemed too lighthearted, or cryptic, or perhaps modest, I'm not sure, because it took a few more minutes before the argument was finally dropped.
I wrote that book when I was sixteen. The best description of me at age sixteen would be: f***ed up. To some extent it was obvious but for the most part, no one noticed. So I wrote and all the f***ed up seeped into the pages I hand wrote and later, typed. While what happens in the book is not at all what happened to me, a lot of the emotions felt by the characters are my own. I can remember what I wrote... vividly... unlike the other two novels I wrote even though they are more recent and I enjoyed writing them more. The more I think about it, the more disturbing it is to me. In some cases, that book turned out to be prophetic which adds a whole other layer of freaky. What it comes down to is that it's so personal and so raw that I can't read my own words because I remember being that person. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable to imagine people reading the barest version of me at the most vulnerable time of my life. It upsets me to know that people have read it, read it in the correct time frame, and still failed to see that I was seriously damaged. Two people saw me for what I really was and they tried to help me. They did help me. But at the same time, I watched as others like me went unnoticed and I can't help but wonder why. And that makes me angry. So you see, that book is much more than words. It's a whole other person and time period that I don't care to revisit.
When it came up last night, I didn't want to go into detail because not everyone knew what I was like then. More than anything, I don't like sharing that version of me with anyone. It's kind of like offering up the most damaged, most pathetic, most pained part of my soul. Let's face it, baring your soul is hard enough, you don't want to open up the part that's been fed through a shredder and stomped on a few times.
The written word: blessing and curse.
Lauren.
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