(no subject)
This will be the first post that isn't private/hidden/invisible in a long time.
But I have to get it off my chest and this is one of the few things I think I can actually post without having to worry about one of the jerkasses I've met being jerkasses about it.
Yes, you. You're one of the jerkasses. Fuck you. I hope your death comes quick.
I'm writing for the first time in ten years. My own fiction that isn't porn. I've got fully developed characters, plot, an ending. Mike is helping me, Mike has probably told me more of the story than I have, but I've been writing it and I've been enjoying it.
And I want to tell Pops about it so bad. I miss him so much right now.
I stopped writing after he left, I knew I did, I noticed it, and I've had writer's block for probably ten fucking years now, and I'm finally starting to work through it for a boy and I miss my dad so fucking much, I miss him and I can't talk to him, I don't even know what I'd say. I haven't written anything in so long and I knew it was because he left, but I didn't realize it would be this fucking bad, this fucking hard to break through it, I didn't know it would hurt this bad.
I miss my dad. I miss him. I miss him so fucking much. Dammit. Dammit! I want to talk to him about it, tell him about my characters and my story, about the world I'm building, I've been working and it's been working, finally, after years, SO MANY YEARS, I've had all this building up, all my words, all my stories, all of them, they've been sitting and rotting and it's been horrible, I cannot tell you how fucking horrible it's been, it has hurt so much, you can't imagine what it's like to be a writer that can't write, and if you can it's because you've been there, and it's fucking painful, and I can, it's been coming out and I want to talk to my dad about it. I used to talk to him about the stuff I was writing, he and I would sit and talk about that stupid vampire love story and shit, talk about the characters, the words, the way I talk to Mike is so similar, the way we've bonded over writing my stories like this, Mike and I are even repairing bits of broken in the relationship where we stumbled, it's been so nice.
But he's asleep right now and I'm thinking about Pops and I want to talk to him about it. I want to share this, I want to tell him about my fucking stories and I can't, I fucking can't and it hurts so fucking much.
I don't even think he wants to, judging by Grace, he's managed to work us into horrible people that he never wants to deal with again. Which isn't fine, I was going to say it was, but it's not, but there's nothing I can do about it.
So I get to wallow in how much it hurts. Picking a scab, I guess. Setting the bone, even. This one was a deep wound.
Maybe re-breaking it to set it. I needed to do it, it's been so fucking long, so long, I've been stuck, I couldn't fucking write.
I miss him. I miss the way we talked. Weren't very good parent-child after a certain amount of time, but still.
I want to tell him about my stories, dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit! It HURTS!
My favorite one isn't even the good one, the deepest, most developed one.
I couldn't write, I couldn't, I tried, I probably have two hundred half-started half-developed plots and characters, I have stacks and stacks of paper and probably a gig of text files (saying something, they're not very big), hundreds of thousands of words typed and nothing, nothing has come of any of it.
These two that I was working on, Mike built them for me, really. He plugged them into a D&D character generator, I told him what I wanted and he helped, he did it for me, and it's grown so much, they've taken a life of their own, finally, FINALLY, it's been so fucking long... They've expanded into five, now. He stole one of them and rebuilt her, I wanted the pieces he cut out and so we built another, so she has a twin, now. It wasn't fair, her story isn't fair to her at all, she's just an extension of the other one. She's got one thing she's got of her own, and I can't write that one because I'm afraid to fuck it up.
Okay. I got it out. I think. I had to cry, had to use words to express. I don't know why I can't talk like I write. I used to think it was backspace, but honestly, that's not it. I don't know what it is. This is just easier. Talking doesn't have the same effect for me anymore. It used to. But this works better for me. I communicate better this way. It's easier.
It was so long. I didn't even know it was that bad, I didn't know my writing was tied to him so tight. Ouch. Goddammit. Ouch.
Okay.
I'm okay.
No, no, I'm not, but I'm more okay than I was when I started writing this a few minutes ago. I can think the words "I miss my dad" without bursting into more tears.
I do, though. I miss him a lot. I want to tell him about my stories. And I can't. And that sucks but it's done and gone and over. Dammit.
I'll be okay. I need to go write some more. Torture my Good Guy some more. Pick on my anti-hero.
Fucking ouch.
-R.F.