Entry #685835, added on 01-30-10 @ 1:01 pm EST
Entry Access Restriction: None.
| nothing special | Entry #685835 |
I can't write. I know it. Everyone can stop thinking it, now.
I have been trying to rework some old short stories of mine for the past couple days and decided that they are offensive in their mediocrity. I have no original ideas, but this would be forgivable if only I could present them in a way that was remotely interesting. I can churn out a poem or two, but I think that, for me, a poem is a story without the commitment. A story takes dialogue and a setting and decision to stay in it for longer than a few verses. I am not gifted. My high school English teacher must have been high to say otherwise. Billy Collins said something to the effect of 'when someone reads one of my poems, I want them to feel like they've been driven to an unknown destination and left there', or something to that effect. I get what he meant, though. I don't want anyone reading what I write and think they've been there before, or that they had a much better ride with someone else. I want to do it differently, but I want to do it well. I am failing on all counts.
Oh, and I'm in a bad mood, mostly because the man I love is an idiot. I don't want to go into it too much because I'll just wallow and that never gets me anywhere. Suffice it to say that he is oblivious to my needs at times, and has the audacity to be surprised when I withdraw and curl into myself. I had almost fallen asleep last night when a flurry of angry thoughts broke through the dreamy veneer and pulled me back. Then, I sat up in the dark room, hearing him tap, tap, tap on his keyboard in the next room, and I became possessed with the kind of anger that makes people break precious heirlooms. I bounded in to his office, where I saw that he was in the process of closing his computer down, and said something like 'What the hell are you doing?', to which he looked baffled and said meekly, 'I was just coming to bed.' Which was true, and no, I don't think he was doing anything strange or deceitful because I long ago accepted that the man is a workaholic, but yesterday I just sort of reached my breaking point, you know? For some reason, the things he does daily stopped making sense to me last night. So, he came to bed, eyeing me carefully, and watched as I disgustedly pushed 'The Poisonwood Bible' aside because I just don't love the book, and reach for Thomas Wolfe's 'Look Homeward, Angel', which so far, I like much better. He read his book, I ripped through mine, and I only turned off the light when I decided it was too late to keep reading. I wasn't tired, but I didn't want the lights on, anymore.
The main problem is that my pride takes a major hit whenever I am whelmed with love for him and he either doesn't notice or seem to care much about it. It happens, every now and then, that my mind wanders over him and I am completely drunk on the visual and when I attempt to convey what I'm feeling, he is totally dense or unaffected. So, I interpret this as indifference, which turns to 'he doesn't really love me', which makes me feel sick to my stomach. Though much evidence points to the probability that he does love me, there is always that nagging voice in my head that says 'Hey, lots of your friends and acquaintances have been blindsided by their men lately, and none of them thought their relationships were in trouble, either'. He treats me well, most of the time, but I have to be honest and say that women don't just want to be treated well by their men. We need passion. We need grand gestures on occasion. We need the men to seem impressed by us. It doesn't go away just because the years pass by.
I am a bit of a passive-aggressive twit, but not because it is my tool of choice. I sincerely don't know how to argue effectively, or rather, discuss things in a constructive way. My emotions and I rarely see eye to eye, and often, when I'm angry, they decide to parade as sadness, weakness and pass me off as a victim. In short, I cry when I'm pissed, and I hate that about myself. I can't come up with an intelligent sentence to save my life because I am too wrought with the tears and the shame in shedding them. If I were to confront him, it would genuinely come off as a confrontation, but if I were to approach him to talk about the things that upset me, it would come off as teary confrontation. I don't do soft and accepting well. For these reasons, I become sullen and hide in my room, typing away in my journal. It's just what I do.
He once told me that my 'fire' and my 'Irish temper' were part of what attracted him to me, because he likes that I don't take any nonsense from people. I have come to learn, though, that this is not the case anymore. Now, he cites my anger as a point of criticism, and I get confused about it. Do I tell him he's a complete ass or do I smile and pretend that it doesn't matter?
You know what I've noticed? Most people I know seem to shy away from adoring their partners after the first couple years. Now, this could be because they've grown comfortable with them and no longer feel the lunacy of new love, that period of madness where you want everyone to see how madly in love you are. It could also be fear. It could be the fear that loving someone so intensely and announcing it to people regularly is like cursing it, in a way. You know how people tell you to 'never say never'? Is this the same thing? Is it massive insecurity that leads people to do stupid things like cheating on the partner that they actually love? I wonder this sometimes. R. was like that. He adored me in private but he never held my hand or kissed me in public or told his friends how much he loved me. Look how that turned out. No, he didn't cheat on me, and yes, I left him for someone else, but it was about the grand gestures. No surprises, no demonstrations of love, no words that would tame me. He left it to me, and I got really, really annoyed. The story ended.
Grand gestures, gentlemen. Or, at least, acknowledge her and tell her she looks pretty.
|
© Copyright 2010 katwoman45 (UN: katwoman45 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
katwoman45 has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
Content Rating Notice: Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only
Static Items
Books
Forums
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
