On credibility. I know that the prompt authors for Reverb 10 are giving their prompts for nothing. Sort of. We follow links to their websites to see who they are and possibly what they have to offer.
I can’t afford to buy much these days. I’ve been living off savings to feed my writing addiction, you see. When the Reverb 10 site links me to Amazon, I get annoyed. I don’t want to buy another book to support another writer, especially a writer whose work is, in my head, at least, bollocks. I can’t even support the writer that I want to be right now. Understand?
I do respect some of the prompt authors.
But holy Jesus on toast! The Goddess? I’m sorry, but I'm fucking offended.
Life is not all rainbows and butterflies. Just because you think you’ve managed to get all the things you WANT to get before you’re 25 doesn’t mean that you’ll keep those things or continue to get other things you want when you’re 35 or 47 or 52 or 68 (you could die at 68, like my parents, or at 33, like my friend Kevin, or at 60, like my friend Karen, 27, like my friend Bob).
Life stinks. That’s one of the things that makes it so rich. It’s like my daddy’s favorite soft French cheese – camembert.
Life isn’t always lived in Happy Camp.
That’s another thing that makes it rich.
I am wounded.
You are damaged.
Someone hurt us.
We live, anyway.
Some of us carry oozing, open wounds all our lives. That’s OK. We function anyway. Healing? Drip-by-drip? What is this, chemotherapy?
My father decided against chemo but accepted a little radiation so that he could continue to read his beloved books after the brain mets.
My mother took some chemo by mouth in pill form when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She only lost a little hair.
I have friends who are trying to survive drip-by-drip, but I don’t think they’ll ever truly heal. I don’t know. Are we supposed to heal? Fully?
I think my emotional wounds ache most deliciously when I encounter someone else who is wounded. I find myself wanting to touch them, to talk to them, to listen to them. Maybe we should let ourselves stay damaged, just a little bit, so that we can recognize each other as the walking wounded, talk to each other about what happened, see.
There is no shame in being wounded, perpetually, forever wounded. I will not feel shame for being unable to heal completely. That’s madness.
I can’t think about healing in 2011. This next year will continue much in the same way that 2010 did. I will raise my child, negotiate with her father, try not to go broke, continue learning to say “no” until someone can pay me when I say “yes.” I’ll write, I’ll submit my work, I’ll be with friends, learn things, do things, live.
But I’ll always be wounded. And that’s all right. The wounds keep me spicy.