Tuesday, May 29, 2012


Marta has been living in my head for almost a year now. See Marti (as she prefers to be called) is a character in a story I've been working with off and on.  I was horrible to her, you see.  I killed her love.  Sent him spinning down a mountain with the rest of her theater troupe.  It was cruel, but necessary. The story is about loss of self within grief so strong that reality fades. So to create the environment that would breed such despair, I had to go to such lengths.

Now I am afraid to touch the story.  Afraid that I will lose myself in Marti, and she will lose herself to me.  Am afraid her man will turn into T instead of being someone over there.  I will cry harder then I could imagine when I detail her receiving the news. It's just a bare outline now.  Not because I couldn't bear it, but because I couldn't bother originally.

How cruel I was, to kill off someone so important and not even grace them with detail.

I wonder if that is what holds me back from finishing.  The fear that I will lose my sense of distance.  Lose the last bit of separation between myself and my fiction.

I see her in my head, curled up on the corner of my bed.  She eyes me with curiosity and kindness.  She keeps quiet, plaiting the long grassy strands of our grief together.  Creating blue green baskets to hold all the memories.

We are already intertwined.  What use is fear now?

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