Tears spilt from the pages of this new story. It was a sad saga of a broken love affair. Stretching across three decades it ended in unconscionable pain. It was a story everyone knew, but it was a different way of telling it.
I had ached with the writing of it. Every keystroke was a body blow. By the time I’d entered the last word, I was curled in on myself by the weight of it. My eyes were ringed in black shadow from the sleepless nights spent fighting the demons of this story.
The few friends I had managed to keep through this process said it was my best effort, but the cost was too high. They said I looked dead. If only they knew how I felt.
It had taken me nine months to write it, and came in now at just over 500 pages; almost too long, but there was so much that needed to be captured, so much needing to be said.
I didn’t write every day of the nine months. Many days the weight of the telling wouldn’t allow it. Then one day the characters’ scratching at my brain, demanding their story be told, would become too much. In a furious effort, I would scorch the screen with 10,000 words a day, sleeping for an hour or two before snapping awake with the urgent need to capture the fragment of whatever I had been dreaming.
It would take a week or two to recover from these bouts, and then I’d start in again as the characters clawed at my brain for release.
The way I work, when I re-write, if I have the courage, I must have a printed copy of the pages to work from. Reading my own words is such a torture. I need something physical upon which to take out the frustration at my poor sentence structures, tangential asides, and awful word choices. I eviscerate those pages.
Because of the self-flagellation involved, my re-writes are few and far between. This piece would never have been touched again but for the encouragement of the few remaining friends I’ve allowed to read it. Their praise led me to believe I had to take it on again.
And so now I sit with my tears staining the pages. I know the truth of these words. I know they will never see publication beyond the viewing of those friends. They are too true. There is too much pain. They are the best words I have written because of the truth and the pain.
That is what my words do, cause pain. Those few that have found their way to publication have led to angry words from my past from those who think they were inspiration for the hurt the words hold. They never cared to understand the demons that haunt my days.
Still, there is hurt in my words. Because of this, I will keep them confined to these tear-stained pages, hoping the catharsis will come with their having escaped from my mind.
