I had just put down Autobiography of a Face, took off my glasses, and turned off the light. I was amazed that it was only 12:20 and I was ready to sleep. As I slid down the pillows and pulled my legs up to curl into my favorite position, I thought just how nice it would be if I were curling into someone else, someone who would say something silly like “how you feeling baby blue?” because this someone would know how my chest really hurts from all the plague-induced coughing.
I even smiled a little at myself, because it’s been so long since I’ve indulged me in those little fantasy-relationship vignettes.
As I willed sleep to come, I let my mind flitter about jumping from one subject to another. I laughed about Smel, Hilary, and I drooling over Adonis from class, and how Hilary called him her new boyfriend. Then I got to thinking how when I wake up in the morning I should get to re-writing “The Toilet Duck Incident.” I started thinking about my story and my character Margo and whether or not she should get a happy ending. The ending now, I think is rather happy. Then my mind told me “there are no happy endings for girls like Margo.” that’s when I started to cry and I haven’t really stopped.
I like Margo a lot. She’s me. Sure I’m not, nor was I ever, a 29-year-old virgin, but she’s still me. So is Faith and so is Anita and so is Meg. They’re all me in some way or another, a portion of me in a fictional situation of my creation, but still me. I keep telling myself once I get more into this writing thing, I’ll be able to stop writing about myself. But right now, I’m all I write about.
The tears surprised me. The sudden and unsuspected appearance of the mean reds caught me off guard. The abysmal terror that I will always be this alone and just indulging myself in little fantasy-relationship vignettes left me sticky-faced, sweaty, and wide awake. I am horrified with myself over these senseless tears. I had a good day today. I had over wonderful, smart people that I adore. I had them here at my place, my semi-clean apartment that always makes me happy. After my friends left, I totally indulged myself in mindless episodes of Dawson’s Creek and a bowl of ice cream. It was really a good day, I thought as I crawled into bed with my book. But then the mean reds and the tears, and now I’m hopelessly wide-awake and scared.
The idea that this is not enough terrifies me. It makes me sit here in front of my computer at 1 in the morning listening to Bob Dylan and crying so hard that I can barely see the screen. This should be enough. Days like this might be as good as it gets for me. Good friends and good words might be all I’m cut out for and I should accept that not bawl like a baby. Yet, still I cry.
And as I take a break to blow my nose, I think of what made me start to cry. It was the idea that if I poured all my loneliness into Margo’s story, all my worries and dreams and everything else, the story will find the soul it so desperately needs. That’s what set me off, the fact that I can add all that because it’s something so very close to me. In this case, I can totally write what I know and it makes me sad.
Now, as I will the tears to stop, something Smel said today about her sudden unease and worry over her writing ability comes to mind. She talked about how the urge to create needs to somehow be balanced by the need to destroy. This theory of hers is the only thing providing me any comfort right now in the midst of these mean reds. I keep telling myself that maybe this episode right now, what I’m feeling at this very moment is my urge to destroy, to tear down something so that tomorrow I can create.