One Writer’s Beginnings…

In my beginning is my end, and in my end is my beginning… (–Eliot, “Four Quartets”)

My beginning begins with myself. Shocker. Plot Twist!

A lot of people don’t know me very well. I don’t think it is easy to know me. I don’t even know me very well. I know myself well enough to know what I’m going to do, and usually how I am going to do it, and what I should not do (but might anyway), and that I’m going probably call my mother and decide what to do if I am confused.

I think a large part of my love of literature just comes from the idea of being able to understand people and myself better (I am very narcissistic, you know). And it is a truly terrifying thing, to know a person in a few glances, to be able to predict how stupid a person will act (try NOT being cynical after telling people not to do something because it will not be good for them or the other people involved and having them do it anyway). I know people are fascinated by Sherlock Holmes, but I doubt that anyone would wonder what it would be like to be him. And I mean truly wonder, like you could step into his skin, put on his eyes, and use his brain while simultaneously watching with your own.

I have the limited ability to do that. I can usually tell how serious a person is when they post on Facebook. I can guess reactions pretty accurately. I know when people are lying or are naive or even ignorant, willingly. For the majority of the time. Having an overactive imagination is usually the thing that stops me from commenting on it as much as I do. That and a plea from certain family members. I am certainly not a superhero, and not a complete villain, and I do not have a full capability to do so (probably limited by my overactive imagination), but I can usually tell which people I’m going to associate with as well the ones I am going to make excuses not to until something happens to change that.


Part of writing well lends itself to characterization. I’m able to characterize myself directly – telling you what I think, how I think, and what it is like. I’m also able to characterize myself from what others say to me about myself, thanks to a LOT of feedback from people.

I am smart (it is the only thing that people outside my friend bubble recognize me for).

I am self-deprecating (courtesy of my humor).

I am lazy (that is from my Netflix account).

I am unable to focus until I am multitasking (I am working on this while doing homework…and Facebooking).

I am unable to accept criticism unless it is constructive and comes with a personal promise to help.

I do not have time for people who make me upset.

I am very busy.

I do not have time for friends a lot of the time because of my schedule.

I am very emotionally stoic or out of control (all or nothing, don’tcha know).

I am a feminist, but I am more than that – I am a female hero, not a heroine (archetypes).

I am very loyal to those that are loyal back to me.

I am easily discouraged by unpredictability even though I long for it.

I find out more about myself the more I write.

I do not like having the people around me judge me when they do not know me as I probably most likely know them.

I can be petty from time to time.

I am tired of being invisible.

I desperately long for someone to swoop into my life, pick me up, and assert their determination to make me feel valued – truly valued, like “this is not so you’ll be nicer to me or my other friends” type of way. Which I do understand can happen a lot, even subconsciously. I swear to this day I have no clear idea how my husband managed to do this, though I suspect I do know more than I’m letting on. “Sometimes people put up walls to see who will knock them down.” Only I’ve put up a citadel.

I am well-meaning on my blogging…I try to keep it professional, but really people, do you really want more professionalism? Professionalism is just another name for one more wall to be justifiably built up around yourself. No. Not really. You want something real and bigger and just more…MORE…but I tend to get off topic easily and while I still try to tie it all together it’s easy to see that I just tried to tie it all together nicely and it didn’t usually work.

I am funny if I try and if I don’t try too hard.

I am afraid of a lot of things. Which I will not admit to all of them, but some of them are pretty basic. Who is really going to love me, for example? Who am I going to let love me? It’s terrifying to think of being all alone, being unable to explain who you are or why somethings are important to you while others are not, and why you want to believe certain things and why you do ultimately believe certain things.

I am a work in progress. I am not finished yet. I think those will be the last words on my lips: I am not finished yet! Either as a protest to death or an embrace to heaven.

There are other forms of characterization, but I don’t want to go away divulging all my secrets. No, we are still in speed-dating mode, most of us. And there are so many other things, but I am sure I have bored you quite thoroughly already. Next time I will try to keep it shorter. It’s funny, I just don’t want to do this and I don’t want to write this and then when I finally convince myself to try, I am overcome and I erupt with words and phrases, the ones sirening me from just outside my conscious thought bubble.

Ah well, alas the night is over.


4 thoughts on “One Writer’s Beginnings…

    1. I like to think that is true. Much of my life consists of an overlapping of worlds, where the imaginary and the real blend into one another and back again. You can’t ignore the real in favor of the fantastical, and the fantastical is insubstantial without the real. I definitely agree that I write to understand myself, but also help others understand how I see them and how the world is from my POV. I like to think, especially in certain social climes, telling stories helps me create a world where people from completely different worlds can coexist long enough to understand and respect each other. One of the downsides of “preaching tolerance” is that there is a mandate to do it, but very little in the way of “why” or “how” other than reaffirming platitudes somewhere between “Men ought to be unselfish” and “You don’t want to be a ‘phobic’ type of person, do you?”


      1. Much of what you say, I agree with although there is no end or objective intended. This is life, as I see it, can you see it, too? If, having read something I’ve written, a reader gains a new insight, then fair play to them, but don’t attribute that revelation to me, they found it themselves. But writing is a means of self discovery and a way, by which, we can stretch our own consciousness, particularly outside our comfort zones


      2. And to add to that, yes, I believe writers spend half their lives inside their own heads which is why we must get out into the real world, connect with people and observe and try to understand their lives and their point of view. That’s why we are writers, because that’s what we do and we can’t do it without both sides, the imagination and the reality


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