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Make friends, not points. There is no weakness in vulnerability and nothing compromising about being patient. Your relationships are delicate, ever changing things, and they deserve the mindfulness that can only be gained by a collaborative attitude and kind approach. Say what you want heard; don’t air all your dirty laundry.

My horoscope for the week. Perfect timing, in a way, what with all the desire to dig into the nitty gritty. Maybe I’ll work that out for myself, then. Patience; having lots to say and not wanting to wait for the right words.

It’s a good question, though: what do I want heard?

I’m tired of being the strong one.
I want to take off the brave face.
This hurts.
I’m not sure I’ll ever know how to love without losing myself.
That scares me.
I don’t trust myself.
I don’t trust other people.
I hate feeling vulnerable.
Feeling vulnerable is all I do lately.

Recently I came across this article on narcissism, and I’ll be damned if a ton of it didn’t cut right through me and my issues. This is pretty much exactly where I am lately: “What good self-love achieves, Aristotle continued, is the capacity to get over yourself. Then you are liberated to see that there’s a world around you. You are not king or queen. Instead, you know you are one of many, and those many are there to love and be with, to be known by and to get to know. You have time for others because you do not need to have all the time for yourself. You are a delight to be with, having taken in the first love of your parents and now being able to live it yourself.”

More on that last sentence later, once I’ve gotten over myself enough to not want to write about it all with more dignity than pain (ahem). That’s the reminder I needed, I think; I was thisclose to writing for revenge. That’s not the point here. And there are better ways to achieve revenge than a quasi-anonymous blog, anyway.

Plod along.

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I do this every time

I’ve always been a binge writer. I get into the swing of things and write like my life depends on it (which, in some ways, it does) for a while. Then I hit a block that has nothing to do with inspiration or imagination, and everything to do with self-consciousness.

When I hit that point, writing feels narcissistic. I write about myself; I get embarrassed about dwelling on my life, as though I’ve done anything profound enough to write about. (I do  know that this is a bullshit attitude, I’m just breaking my pattern down.)

I don’t feel this way about other people’s work. I love getting a glimpse into another person’s life. When I feel it about myself always makes me stop and try to focus on something more noble. I start writing more on Cowbird because it is dedicated to life experiences, large and small; it provides the perfect cover. I work on short fiction, poetry, a novel; noble, acceptable forms of literature far enough removed to keep me from feeling self-indulgent.

But really, why bother with the pretense? All writing is about life, about feeling alive. David Foster Wallace said fiction is about what it’s like to be a fucking human being. Talking, writing, communicating; it’s all about understanding ourselves and (if we’re lucky) each other. Writing is about what it is to live as a human being. Why not stick to the source?

Human interaction is the thing that gives our lives meaning. I get that. I write to understand myself, and I hope the things I write help other people do the same. Maybe that’s self-indulgent, or self-centered, but so is life. How can you understand life if you don’t think about it, process it, record it?

This is a long way of saying that I see that block looming. I feel selfish and self-indulgent for spending so much time writing about my life. This time I’m going to push through.