Divining Honesty

I want very much to separate the mental from the physical. I would like to pluck the emotion out like the inconvenient splinter it is and put it in an air-tight container, to be taken out, inspected, and borne much later, when I am strong enough. Who knew you could get growing pains from speedy emotional growth.

Incidentally, whether whatever attacked last night (see previous post) was the whatifs or not, I am still thinking about Shel Silverstein. How can it be possible that the same man who gave us I Love My Left Hand also gave us The Giving Tree? How is that psychologically plausible at all? It just goes to demonstrate the very vast reaches of the human range of emotion, and that is why I have missed him every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of the years since his heart failed him, too.

I'm looking forward to blogging my novel in November. (I'll create a new blog just for the event and link to it from here.) I am totally clueless as to its plot and players, but I'm no longer worried about blowing my one great story. That was so silly; there's no such thing. Didn't Anne Rice teach us that? You see, as much as I admired Louis as he poetically spilled his guts to that hapless journalist, as much as I loved his morals and his pain, I loved Lestat's vitally skewed point of view still more. I loved the vibrant fictional enfant terrible, especially his taste for subjecting those near and dear to him to his constant, thoughtless emotional experimentation. That's always been my weakness, and that's what gets me into trouble in the first place. I'm learning to like being the victim less and less. I shouldn't allow people to treat me that way. Someday I'll swear it off altogether, but there are just a few more things I have to know.