Last night I said goodbye.
It was on her terms, as always, but it was still closure. A year is a long time to speculate about the hows and whys, to wonder if you could have done something differently.... At the same time, a year passes in the blink of an eye, here and gone before you can miss it.
Albus Dumbledore, beloved Hogwart's headmaster from the Harry Potter series, was outed in 2007. It caused quite a stir, especially among the religious folk who had already been dishing out hate because of the story's basis on magic/"witchcraft". Now, this was long before I knew I'd ever pursued something as crazy as writing a novel, but it made me shake my head--not because I am homophobic, because I am most certainly AM NOT. Rather, I just couldn't understand why it mattered. Why would J. K. Rowling share something that had such damaging potential when it never was mentioned in the books? I think I get it now.
At the risk of confirming how crazy I really am, I'll admit that what I put to paper first plays out like a movie reel in my mind. There's no guessing, and usually the movie is kind enough to replay itself enough to give me time to jot down a reminder. For example, when my main character goes from one room in the hospital to another, the room layout changes without my having to consider it. I know where people are sitting in these rooms, etc. And that's true for most of what I write. The people in my story rarely need my help figuring things out, and I am assuming that's because I'm not really all that bright... Or maybe it's because they are quite aware that my mind doesn't function well in straight lines and logistics. They probably have rightly deduced that the only way I will be able to bring this story to life is if they work it out themselves and then hit me over the head with it.
The people in my story have their own personalities, their own rich pasts full of triumph and trauma. They listen to some of the same bands I do, and turn up their noses in disgust at others. Maybe someone somewhere in their story is a fan of the same sex, but, to date, no one has raised their hand. It's weird to me how much it's beginning to make sense. I'm afraid that someone will tell me this is possible because I have multiple personalities. If that's true, shhhhh! I don't want to know.
This isn't my story, and these aren't my lives. I laugh. I hope. I fall in love. I get angry. I feel their despair. I sit on the edge of my seat wondering what's going to happen next. I'm just the messenger.
It was on her terms, as always, but it was still closure. A year is a long time to speculate about the hows and whys, to wonder if you could have done something differently.... At the same time, a year passes in the blink of an eye, here and gone before you can miss it.
Albus Dumbledore, beloved Hogwart's headmaster from the Harry Potter series, was outed in 2007. It caused quite a stir, especially among the religious folk who had already been dishing out hate because of the story's basis on magic/"witchcraft". Now, this was long before I knew I'd ever pursued something as crazy as writing a novel, but it made me shake my head--not because I am homophobic, because I am most certainly AM NOT. Rather, I just couldn't understand why it mattered. Why would J. K. Rowling share something that had such damaging potential when it never was mentioned in the books? I think I get it now.
At the risk of confirming how crazy I really am, I'll admit that what I put to paper first plays out like a movie reel in my mind. There's no guessing, and usually the movie is kind enough to replay itself enough to give me time to jot down a reminder. For example, when my main character goes from one room in the hospital to another, the room layout changes without my having to consider it. I know where people are sitting in these rooms, etc. And that's true for most of what I write. The people in my story rarely need my help figuring things out, and I am assuming that's because I'm not really all that bright... Or maybe it's because they are quite aware that my mind doesn't function well in straight lines and logistics. They probably have rightly deduced that the only way I will be able to bring this story to life is if they work it out themselves and then hit me over the head with it.
The people in my story have their own personalities, their own rich pasts full of triumph and trauma. They listen to some of the same bands I do, and turn up their noses in disgust at others. Maybe someone somewhere in their story is a fan of the same sex, but, to date, no one has raised their hand. It's weird to me how much it's beginning to make sense. I'm afraid that someone will tell me this is possible because I have multiple personalities. If that's true, shhhhh! I don't want to know.
This isn't my story, and these aren't my lives. I laugh. I hope. I fall in love. I get angry. I feel their despair. I sit on the edge of my seat wondering what's going to happen next. I'm just the messenger.
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