Burning Down

I just uploaded the ninth of twelve chapters in my new fanfic. Although the story itself sprang to mind after watching that YouTube video I mentioned before, this chapter was fueled almost entirely by the song "Whisper" by Evanescence (lyrics found here; the song can be heard on this Fullmetal video on YouTube.) If you hear it, you'll figure out why it worked so well.

It was, without a doubt, the hardest chapter of any fanfic I've ever written. I found myself poring over it, changing it over and over until my head hurt--which, when it comes to fanfic, is very odd for me. Up to the second I clicked "upload", I almost decided to let the story go unfinished. Not for any sadistic reason, mind you; I know there are a few interested readers out there and felt terrible about letting them down. It was more out of an unexplainable, vague uneasiness I couldn't understand. Fear of rejection, sure--but I always have that. This was something more, and I think I've finally figured out what it is.

Many years ago my playwriting professor lamented that, although I can write a great story, when it comes to infusing the characters with passion I put up a wall between myself and the audience (and not the good kind of wall.) It's a defense mechanism that I, apparently, am not always aware of. I tend to think (even when I don't realize it) that the audience is looking past the characters and judging the writer.

Usually, it's a little different with fanfic where I'm concerned. The characters have already been established in the reader's mind, so I can focus on the plot instead of worry about what the audience will be thinking when I have the character act a certain way. That may be why I have a good grasp of personalities when I write: I'm always fully conscious of what the character is feeling at any given time, even when they're not in the spotlight. The difference is, with stage/screenplays I'm hesitant to let the audience see those feelings for fear of being judged through the characters feeling them. How's that for screwed up? I think there was a line on Grey's Anatomy that explains it perfectly: "scary and damaged".

This chapter brought out some extreme emotions in the characters, which explains the issues I had in writing it. In a way, I consider it a type of breakthrough on my journey to becoming a better writer. I've discovered what my problem is and when it surfaces; now I just need to figure out how to work through it.

Fear And Loathing

Yesterday I went on my weekly visit to see my mother in the physical rehabilitation center. On the elevator trip to the fourth floor my father complained he felt dizzy; as we left the elevator, he collapsed. I tried to hold him up, but I was holding onto my laptop and my mother's weekly order of coffee and two Boston Creme donuts. As we later discovered, his blood sugar was 84 and had dipped in the elevator. I thought his fall would be the worst thing that happened. It wasn't.

I actually stood frozen as members of the rehab center's medical team helped him to a chair, secretly grateful the incident had happened so close to a hospital instead of out in a parking lot somewhere (which has happened.) Memories of my father's collapse in December, followed by a diagnosis of brain cancer, came flooding back in horrific detail. Tears started flowing immediately thereafter, and I found a lot of the nurses asking me if I was all right.

The truth was, I hated myself for reacting the way I did. Not just chagrined, and it went way beyond embarrassed. I hated myself for letting my father see how strongly my fear of his condition runs. There's precious little else in this world that will reduce me to a quivering, unintelligible mass of tears in an instant other than the death (or threat therein) of someone close to me. I suppose I never really got used to the idea because I didn't lose anyone in my life until I was a teenager, but since then it's been far more frequent.

All my life I've been the "strong, silent type". I guess I have a sort of easily approachable personality that lets my friends and family know I care about their problems, and I'm always willing to listen and/or help where I can. After all, humanity is a rough road, and when that journey is shared with others, the inherent pains associated with the human condition are lessened considerably.

But when it comes to my problems, some part of me feels like I don't have the right to let anything show. No, I don't know why, and for 26 years it hasn't been an issue. But in the course of two years I've been repeatedly confronted by horrors and deep-rooted fears I had never before considered or given a second glance to, and because of my own Goddamn pride/fear/hatred/whatever, I can't even talk to anyone about it. Not "I don't want to", "I have trouble with it", I am physically incapable of letting the people in my life see any type of pain without immediately hating myself for it. Where did that come from?

Truth be told, I did speak to a friend last night--but not about what had happened earlier. Still, just the act of speaking with a friend about anything--not necessarily problem related--helped me more than I think he'll ever know. I was grateful for this nod to the normalcy that seems to be lacking in my life at the moment.

I used to think I would come out the other side of turning points in my life largely unaffected, unscathed. Now I'm beginning to see that, even if I do come out the other side of this ever-lengthening tunnel, I won't by any means be unscathed.

I bet a psychiatrist would just have a field day with me...or quit their practice.