(no subject)
I have an unlikely friend. Unlikely at the start anyway.
We met in highschool. I was the angry, altpunker, bisexual, atheist. Did I mention that I was angry? She was the virginal, country music listening, horse riding, born again christian. Picture the stereotypes and yes, that's how we looked. I wore a dog collar and she wore cowboy boots. And I hated her. So angry. Grrr.
But I cannot count how much my friendship with her has taught me. I can say that I am a better, richer person for having that little Gypsygoddess in my life. I'm not going to get into all the things she taught me, or forced me to remember. Just going to mention the one that started it. Started our friendship.
Writing. She had written a novella and was brave enough to mention it. To have it out on her desk. She was brave about writing in a way that I envied. She just dove in and did it and didn't seem afraid that someone might actually read it... like I always was. Brave enough to give her little work of art over to that little angry combat boot wearing chick for editing.
We spent years trading our writing back and forth. Weaving a story of abominal proportions together. And through example and encouragement, she helped me learn how to stop censoring myself so much when I wrote. How to give in to what I actually wanted to write... and to stop worrying so much about what someone else might want to read. To let the stories that were in my head just spill out onto the page. No matter how silly. How dark. How indulgent. How painful. How true.
She gave me a safe place to start to get real things on the page. Safe, because she was exposing herself on the page with an abandon that shamed me. Shamed me that I couldn't be so brave. So I tried. Tried just to keep up with her. But there was always one thing I ribbed her over. One little spot where all the truth and exposure and indulgence of her writing seemed to falter.
"It's okay to write cursing and sex, Gypsy. People do that. Not you, I know. But people, normal people, they do."
Recently, she emailed me a novel she's working on. Well, one of three. And in her email, she had this note:
"....and I learned to curse and write about sex. You should be so proud."
I am, Bunnie. I fucking am.
We met in highschool. I was the angry, altpunker, bisexual, atheist. Did I mention that I was angry? She was the virginal, country music listening, horse riding, born again christian. Picture the stereotypes and yes, that's how we looked. I wore a dog collar and she wore cowboy boots. And I hated her. So angry. Grrr.
But I cannot count how much my friendship with her has taught me. I can say that I am a better, richer person for having that little Gypsygoddess in my life. I'm not going to get into all the things she taught me, or forced me to remember. Just going to mention the one that started it. Started our friendship.
Writing. She had written a novella and was brave enough to mention it. To have it out on her desk. She was brave about writing in a way that I envied. She just dove in and did it and didn't seem afraid that someone might actually read it... like I always was. Brave enough to give her little work of art over to that little angry combat boot wearing chick for editing.
We spent years trading our writing back and forth. Weaving a story of abominal proportions together. And through example and encouragement, she helped me learn how to stop censoring myself so much when I wrote. How to give in to what I actually wanted to write... and to stop worrying so much about what someone else might want to read. To let the stories that were in my head just spill out onto the page. No matter how silly. How dark. How indulgent. How painful. How true.
She gave me a safe place to start to get real things on the page. Safe, because she was exposing herself on the page with an abandon that shamed me. Shamed me that I couldn't be so brave. So I tried. Tried just to keep up with her. But there was always one thing I ribbed her over. One little spot where all the truth and exposure and indulgence of her writing seemed to falter.
"It's okay to write cursing and sex, Gypsy. People do that. Not you, I know. But people, normal people, they do."
Recently, she emailed me a novel she's working on. Well, one of three. And in her email, she had this note:
"....and I learned to curse and write about sex. You should be so proud."
I am, Bunnie. I fucking am.