No News is No News or There is Nothing New Under the Sun
Well, one of my favourite fanfic authors has asked to use some of my poetry in a story and I am flattered and thrilled that she likes my writing enough to want to do that. I am squeefull, very. (you can't see it, but I am) And she let me read it, and it made me all weepy. It was a beautiful and sweet and lovely use of some poetry I wrote to remember some loves I had once.
In multiple e-conversations with C about writing and whatnot, it has occurred to me that I have never written erotica or fiction about my exgirlfriend, not even an entry in the nonfiction Meteorology series. I wrote two poems for her, but never any more. I have written a whole lot more for lovers that meant a lot less. And I realized that it is because it hurts too much. Other lovers, every one of them, I wrote about to express love, loss, joy, moments I wanted to remember even after my memory fails, reminders for the future me to look back on and be warmed by and with. But not for her. It is too painful, even these years later that I cannot write even the joy to remember later. And the two women I have even come close to feeling that kind of depth of feeling for, I have shoved to the periphery of my life in order to protect myself, and perhaps them, from my inability to commit, to sustain or to nurture a relationship that might be in any way healthy. This from the chick whose longest lasting relationship to date is with a guy on the phone for ten years. Yeah. Sorry out there.
There is a reason I read a lot of fiction, it keeps me from contemplating my actual life. Speaking of real life, broke 10,000 on my own silly fanfic. Go me.
And yeah, before all y'all panic, I am fine. The days are lengthening, and more light means more ability to cope, and soon I will be able to clean the house again without having to bribe myself to do it. I hope the plants live long enough to get to that point in my depressive cycle. Plants tend to suffer when I am depressed. I used to take care of them when I was depressed and needing nurtured, nurturing them in substitution. That was before I had the internet to escape into. Not so good, that. Oops.
In multiple e-conversations with C about writing and whatnot, it has occurred to me that I have never written erotica or fiction about my exgirlfriend, not even an entry in the nonfiction Meteorology series. I wrote two poems for her, but never any more. I have written a whole lot more for lovers that meant a lot less. And I realized that it is because it hurts too much. Other lovers, every one of them, I wrote about to express love, loss, joy, moments I wanted to remember even after my memory fails, reminders for the future me to look back on and be warmed by and with. But not for her. It is too painful, even these years later that I cannot write even the joy to remember later. And the two women I have even come close to feeling that kind of depth of feeling for, I have shoved to the periphery of my life in order to protect myself, and perhaps them, from my inability to commit, to sustain or to nurture a relationship that might be in any way healthy. This from the chick whose longest lasting relationship to date is with a guy on the phone for ten years. Yeah. Sorry out there.
There is a reason I read a lot of fiction, it keeps me from contemplating my actual life. Speaking of real life, broke 10,000 on my own silly fanfic. Go me.
And yeah, before all y'all panic, I am fine. The days are lengthening, and more light means more ability to cope, and soon I will be able to clean the house again without having to bribe myself to do it. I hope the plants live long enough to get to that point in my depressive cycle. Plants tend to suffer when I am depressed. I used to take care of them when I was depressed and needing nurtured, nurturing them in substitution. That was before I had the internet to escape into. Not so good, that. Oops.