Wolfe tenderly glared me in the eye, willing me, not quite begging, me to understand. You care more about things, and ideas, than you do about people.
I care more about what than what? Your saying I don’t care about people? You make no sense at all, is what I’m feeling.
Piercing him back with my eye, I brush the whole thing off. I know he knows what he’s talking about. Yet, he is off.
Had I seen even the faintest glimmer of what he was talking about, my feelings would have curled into a ball, and whimpered.
It was obvious. I know I care about people. That was that.
With temperamental love a fit all over my life, pretty much like my relationship with writing does when I get other busy, I know something big is off. What? Blame my partner, sumptuously tempting… Ha ha, that’s the dumbest thing I want to do. Writing is demanding, and temperamental, let me blame it when things get crappy there.
Just to get it out there, so I won’t be talking behind your back. Writing, you are a lot of hard work, and a big pain, and sometimes you suck.
Writing, sometimes it’s fire, it blazes; warming, consuming, cooking, destroying, out of control, doused, gone out. Sometimes It’s ice.
Often, I’m failing at it. Times of manic writing, erratic slumps, sickly, bloated to please, smelly, writing; treacherous unfinished stories; lagging, droopy perspective unwinding itself, liquid acid dripping, dead weight sprawling on the page.
It’s a tricky thing, writing is, like any worthwhile relationship.
Yet, committing to it, a marriage made in Nirvana-imperfections and all. I always, pretty much, show “Writing” my love, and devotion.
Writing is an idea, written work, a thing.
People, yes I do love “people” and I show it. No need to go into all that.
Yet, for love of the forest, I missed the tree. The one tree that is mine.
It’s not “people” I don’t love. It’s person. I don’t show I love the person. A Person.
I’ve been more into being loved. I thought I’d committed, but commitment isn’t words, it’s showing up, and showing.
How the heck do I show, and do more than I’m doing, and still be myself?
At the edge of the end, the obvious, a wash of cold water, with ice, smacks me in the face. I have been asking the wrong question. It’s not, How can I be happy?
How can I make him happy?, is the way. This focus swap changed everything.
Just asking the question to myself, felt like turning around, and heading off in a different direction, on a strange road, to somewhere else.
How can I make him happy, while at the same time being happy myself?
Making him happy is, pardon the cliché, a labor of love. Labor, as in, hard ass sweaty, please can this be over, work. It’s just like writing.
I’m loving it the whole time, except when I hate it.