A Good Writer Vs. A Writer

A Good Writer vs. A Writer

As a writer, I often find myself in the middle of odd places at odd times. In odd situations. At least I assume they are odd. What makes them so is simply my awareness of them. Or perhaps lack thereof. The sentences in my head, pull me out of reality and daydreams into another layer of both. I watch them helplessly even as I create them.

There is a scene I found myself itching to write a while ago. It would not leave me alone until it encased me. Consumed every thought. Every step. Until I had encountered every detail it needed me to, and so it goes:

I am standing in a room. But I am not. For the sky is black and speckled with stars and the breeze is blowing and the stone floor is hard. I am wearing a dress, but no shoes. And I feel the warmth, of blood, running up to my elbows, splattering my face, pooling around my bare feet. It is soaking into my floor-length gown. There is enough for it not to be sticky. I have no weapon. See no bodies. But I know they are there. I do not know if the blood is there's or mine. I do not know what happened. Do not know what I feel. Or why I am standing there motionless. All I know is that the blood is warm, but my shoulders are cold. That my hair is down and my heart is steady. 

I do not know what happened. But I do not ask questions. Maybe because I do not want to know. And perhaps that is the difference between a writer and a good writer. Good writers ask why. They explore what happened before, what will happen after. They will work it out. Figure it out. They know or at least want to. But I, I don’t. 

I do not want to know why am I standing there is a flowing dress, covered in blood. Do not want to know why I came here, or if I will leave these bodies and go home to another, or if someone will come to get me. Do not want to know who these bodies belong to. I refuse to ask. I take what it gives me. And do not pry for more. I do not care about the beginning or the end. About where I came from or where I will go. Mostly because I do not want to know. I do not care. All I care about is that this is the one place I do not feel compelled to search for the answers that too often I cannot find or leave me broken. 

So I am just a writer. Who finds herself in the middle of odd places, at odd times, in odd situations, soaked in blood and refusing to ask why. 

There are some things even poetry hesitates to remember.

The Intangible things 

Sometimes your heart is the only thing worth listening to.

Heartless Marissa Meyer

To the eighth grade girl who told me I looked pretty on the day I most needed it. I have not forgotten, you or your smile, as you went skipping back to your friends, and I held my breath. To the eighth grade girl who told me I looked pretty on the day I most needed it, you are beautiful, and I hope someday when you need it the most, someone is there to tell you.

The Intangible Things 

“Shall I stab you it the heart?”

She is sitting on my lap in the middle of the empty marble ballroom floor. I take in lungfuls of her, but every breath that comes in must come out. I pray her scent is tattooed on me, on my bare skin.

And I know I will have to wash her blood off and along with it will go her smell and I know that is the point.

“No...it is not a sure thing. I may just bleed,”

She turns her head, just slightly, as though to get more comfortable.

“You should probably slit my throat,” I stiffen, but she picks up a palm and presses a kiss to it and I try to breathe. I really do try. I promise.

“Andrea…” she presses our arms back down across her waist.

“I love you Lucy,”

My grip on the knife is sweaty. She places a firm moist hand over it and places it above or other two arms wrapped around her waist. Poising to strike.

“I want you to remember. He is trying to break you,”

“I love you,” I shake my head, close my eyes, my voice cracks. 

“Andrea, he is trying to break you,”

“He cannot break what is already broken,”

“Listen to me,” and so I do. Shut out that haunting music. Shut out the burning of Emanuelle's gaze. Shut out the pounding of my heart. Shut out the voice that is screaming for me to cover her with my body and let them try to pry her out of my bloody broken hands. Dare them to take her from my lifeless body. Shut out the pleas from my heart to do it now. To do it know and be over with it.

“Remind him that though you are delicate and beautiful like porcelain and may be shattered on this ballroom floor, that when he comes to collect the fractured shards, when he tries to step all over you, remind him you will cut the soles of his feet and leave his fingers scared.”

She tightens her grip on my hand with the blade. I am not sure if she is trying to assure me or is afraid I will plunge into my own heart.  

“Andrea, do you remember once...I asked you if you remember what your homeland was like? I asked you if you remembered Spain. I asked you if you had forgotten...do you remember?”

I shake my head against her neck. She is such a light thing in my lap. So light. So free. A bird. A bird in a cage. Caged in life. Caged in this room.

“You told me,” a shuddering breath, “you told me that those memories were tucked in the cramped dusty corners of your mind, sealed tight, but always there. Do you remember? You told me you kept your happiness there...to hide it from him. You told me--you told me some things were intangible. That they could not be taken. Seen and felt...but never grasped. Never taken. Your will is intangible Andrea. You soul is intangible. Our love is intangible. In keeping it from him...do not keep it from yourself. I love you so so much, and they cannot take it.”

“I love you too Lucy, I love you so much. I am so sorry. So sorry,”

“Do not be sorry Andrea. Be unapologetic. Exist unapologetically. I will always be here Andrea, I will never leave you. I swear to you that. But you must live. You must live for both of us. You have so much life left. So much life in you. I will wait for you and we will have eternity together.”

And here she was. The soft, Catholic, maid I had met on a Saturday afternoon as she fitted me for a garden party dress. If there was anyone who could make me believe that a God existed it was her. Lucy. My angel. My salvation. My redemption. Lucy. If the gates of Heaven did not open to her then what hope was there for the rest of us. And perhaps I could cling to that. If she was being torn away from me as a torturous lesson, maybe it was because the splendour of the heavens could no longer wait to be reunited with the long lost piece of themselves.

Except from the short story Dance With Her 

Who did it better? 001

The Bow:

Katniss Everdeen vs. Alec Lightwood vs. Feyre Archeon vs. Susan Pevensie