Failure, Forgiveness


After trying to have a discussion with my boyfriend about the novella that I’ve been attempting to write for the past two and a half years (shit, almost to the day) – and yeah,  I know it’s a no-no to talk about your project,  but I still have an outline of it, and I have maybe 50% of it written down – I’ve decided that I’m not going to write it.

Or at least put it on an indefinite hiatus.

Part of me feels defeated,  like,  why wouldn’t I write this? Pretty much all of my stories are based on some of my life experiences,  only highly exaggerated.  But, unlike my other stories, I cannot separate the material from the experience.  Despite my applying artistic license quite liberally,  they are still one and the same.

I initially embarked on this project as a way for me to cope with a man I (thought I) couldn’t have. The original story was about how an older guy was going to corrupt the younger girl – he’d make her read all this crazy literature (like BUKOWSKI!!!!). But part of him loved her “purity.”

So I asked the object of my desires what was a good book to corrupt someone with. He suggested Looking for Mr Goodbar. So I immediately went to Strand to buy it. And yes, it corrupted me, which was precisely the point.

Over the months, the story took different directions, sometimes depending on my mood, but mainly depending on my interactions with him. The story was put on hold when I found out he’d gotten a girlfriend – within days of getting my letter (to give you an idea of the insanity, it took me over a month to write this letter. Well over 7-15 drafts. The final draft I just wrote from the heart, without worrying too much on how he’d take it. And written on pink parchment paper {side note, which was left over from a letter I’d written to a previous gentleman who no longer lives in NYC}. And sprayed with jasmine water. Oh! And I’d enclosed in the letter a CD with Gretchen Parlato’s “Still,” because I’d heard the song on NPR and thought it summed up my feelings succinctly. And I went to the post office on 14th street and spent $14 to mail it, and made sure that I’d get notification once he received it. And then I wanted to burn down the post office because I couldn’t get that damn letter back. And then I checked my email. Every. Damn. Day. For a month and a half)

In retrospect, I chuckle. I was psycho (in a cutesy way). I’m not ashamed of what I did, at all. I let it all out.

Then the story was put on hold when he proposed to me. There really wasn’t a point to continue the story, since its purpose was to help me cope. But once that ended, I found myself needing to use it as a means of therapy.

Yesterday, I came to the painful realization that I didn’t fully “let go” of the situation. Instead of sitting myself down and sorting it all out, I jumped headfirst into life. Got a (series of) job (s), a boyfriend, a new place to stay. Whenever I thought about him, I grew angry, first at him for not being honest, and then at myself for holding out, and for so long.

As I sat down trying to write that story, I realized that every time I tried to write, I’d feel happy, only to become overwhelmed with anger. How dare I think such happy thoughts! Part of me is frightened at the idea of taking him back, or reconciling.

So I stopped writing. It’s only going to rip off that scab and force me to realize it hurts. Sadly, I have to rip off the scab anyway. But that’s not how I want it to happen.


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