We can love people who don't love us back. We can love singing and sing badly. We can love painting and produce unintended ugliness.
I love writing. It's fickle. I want to stop loving it.
I try to show and not tell, like the rejection letter said. But it's not me. I live inside. If anyone sees, it's because I am not good at hiding. I write dreamy and inward. I have to tell.
I love these girls I write that can't show, either. They spend their energy rearranging the rubber bands that keep them in one piece. They can stretch very thin. I don't know how to show this.
I don't like the showing ones I write. I know you don't have to if they're written well. I want to know what they're thinking when they love someone, when they're scared of something, when they make mistakes.
I try to do it the other way. I talked to a 23 year-old boy last night who was a second-born but only. When his brother was a little under 2 years old, his stepfather ran over the baby as he lay behind the car. I once did that with a bag of cat food.
I want to know what the stepfather thinks. How does he live with what he did? Because you know he thinks he did it, not that it was something horrible that happened. He must relive it every day.
That's what I think of. Not what the baby was wearing or the sound of the car. Not the way the neighbors looked at him after. How does that feel?
She drank from the big cup of Diet Pepsi she got at Jack in the Box four hours earlier. It was watery and had lost most of its carbonation. She wrote something on her blog. Something that maybe 2 people would read. She posted it and and went to her bedroom to get dressed for her birthday party. It would be over in 6 hours and 24 minutes.