Monday, August 22, 2005

I am a writer.

When people ask me what I do I tell them that I want to be a comedy writer. This beautiful New York full of creative and ambitious people, is full of artists who stop me and remind me- no, Heather, you are a writer. And I always forget that which is painfully obviously true to me at least by now. I am a writer.

Of course I am a writer. It’s only been with my words that I was able to stun, mystify and freak out my school teachers for all of my years. I’ve been placed in detention, and received praise and surprisingly accepting attention for the things that I had written and given to my teachers from a very young age, like pre-school. Of course I am a writer, a comedy writer too. I would put on a regular stand up comedy show for my third grade class at Jefferson School. Of course I am a writer. I kept a book of poetry since seventh grade and have books full of all of my pubescent and teenage angst complete with tear soaked ink from all of those splendid moments when life overwhelmed me. Yes of course, it’s the one thing in school that saved my ass when test scores reflected my pathetic lack of effort, the papers. Thank god that I could at least whip out papers that would redeem me from seeming otherwise unknowing and unlearned. How stupid could I have ever been to think I should be anything else.

That is the ultimate thing, that is the number one thing that I know how to do- I know what to say. That self-righteousness- that I have something to say that others should hear- that is because I know that I am in the business of saying things. Being my boyfriend can be a harrowing experience because it means maximum exposure to the truth at all times. In fact the most difficult thing about me is my marriage to the truth and taking things for what they are. At all times I will call things and people who and what they are how I see them, and the most troubling thing about me is -when I tell someone how I really feel- the extent of my awareness of these feelings and the extent to which I will reveal them.

Someone who is involved with me at a deep level will be told the truth at all times and have to deal with someone who is unforgiving in her honest observations. That is if I respect them. And by far that is the thing that my family likes about me the least. That I never sugar coat the things I say and I never hide my opinions of them and their lives negative or otherwise and my lack of sensitivity for people’s disdain for reality is a horrible flaw. It causes me to make people cry and scream when I don’t want them to. I just want them to accept the truth and embrace it- to make better what is flawed- to find a way to love something even when it is broken. I just want the world to exist with open eyes. I want people to know as much as they can about the world as it is truly happening and to experience it as authentically as possible because I want them to distinguish between art and life and to even acknowledge when it is blurred as the mirror of its own self that it naturally is.

I am a writer because typing all of these words makes me feel so fucking good, and it’s doubly exciting that it can penetrate another mind and that a feeling, thought, moment, vibration can actually be shared because of this combination of letters and the existence of this brilliant fucking thing- language. Of course people are amazing, look at what we’ve done. Language and words, what unbelievable art beyond all of god’s creations, this is our own independent creation and we are wonderful. Perfect.

I’d love to give me the fucking finger. There. I just have. Literally actually while sitting here with my legs covered in a wrap made of melted chocolate bars neatly wrapped in nubile and overly salty pieces of olive loaf. I am lying about the legs and the food.

I’ll never shut up because I’ve never had writer’s block. Watch me go on and on and on.

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