Ramblings on the Writing Process

It has been hard for me to get back into writing after I wrote my last post. I feel like my writing was sub-par. All over the place. Incoherent. Timeline unclear, jagged, going backward and forward with awkwardly long, frantic sentences. And the content itself was a bit...jarring. Overwhelming. Sickening. I couldn't find the wherewithal to keep going.

I've noticed that my writing wavers like a stick on an old-fashioned metronome, ticking back and forth between writing for catharsis and change -- and writing just to write. On the former side, my writing suffers with my own suffering: I'm charged with emotional recall; I don't care how the words fall off my fingertips and slap themselves onto the screen, just as long as they get out of me and onto it. On the other side, however, I couldn't "care" less "about" "what" I'm writing, so long as I'm writing -- but, even more importantly, writing well. Once in a long while, the ticker slows to stop for a moment, and I, suddenly aware, am suspended, poised in the middle between "meaning" and its signposts, between "content" and the characters that I'm using to represent it. Here is where I hope to find my writing identity.

The purpose of my blog is two-fold, and I find it difficult to stay in balance. One, I'm blogging things (or facts, events) that have "happened" in my life - focusing most intently on the past two years - as a means to prevent things similar from occurring. These things are ones that make me go "Ugh". But I'd much rather the things make me go "Ugh" than the writing itself (writing itself being the second half of the purpose of this blog, of course). My last post stopped my writing process in its tracks, because, that time, both the content and its form offended me terribly. I didn't like what I wrote or how I wrote it.

Here is a brief summary of my blog's "content", or the "what" of it: After watching my relationship with my husband crumble to the ground after ten years of steady erosion and a final heave-ho, I sifted through boyfriends, one-night stands...and before I knew it, was buried under a heaping, stinking pile of men. I enlisted myself in a program for "sex and 'love' addicts", thinking that my problem may be my "powerlessness" (i.e., my seeming inability to say "no" to any man who expresses any interest in me whatsoever). The founder of this program suggests, in his book written for one who identifies as a "sex and 'love' addict", to write a "relationship inventory". This inventory's purpose is to help one identify specific actions in order to discern patterns of behavior with the goal of unearthing motives (or seeing what one "gets" from people s/he has "used"...seeing what the "pay-off" is). Then, one should be able to see how selfish, dishonest, and afraid one has been and acknowledge how one has hurt others with his/her self-seeking motives and actions/patterns. This awareness, along with a surrender to a "power greater than oneself" and a willingness to "let" the behaviors and their propelling motives "go", is supposed to get one to make restitution/amends for harm done and aid other "suffering" "sex and 'love' addicts" which will, inherently, cause one to cease acting out in the patterns of behavior that created the events that made him/her go "Ugh" in the first place. And the inventory's purpose is fulfilled. Boom. Done.

When I found out I should write about all my relationships in order to "recover", I was pretty excited. I love writing! And a former writing professor of mine is writing a blog about his experience with cancer and its treatment (he also writes about bicycling across the U.S.). He also blogs about the writing process itself. It's very inspiring. So, I decided to turn my inventory into a blog so that I could use it both as my motivation to "change" as well as, perhaps one day, material for an actual memoir that I'll publish and have people maybe even read someday!

But...my very influential professor has helped me to see that how one writes is just as important as what one is writing about (along with the books I read in his autobiography-themed lit class in college). His writing appears to be in balance between its content and its characters of representation. It's not just a bunch of emotional rambling that pays no mind to the words being used...nor is it composed of meticulously placed words on a screen without any "real" content behind them.

In contrast, my metronomablog keeps ticking between the two. Here are a few insights I had gleaned about myself last night, before I started to care about how I was writing. I'm not going to do any editing, so you can see a true example of what my content is really like when I pay no mind to characters (as opposed to the above writing, which I've spent seven full hours editing!):



1. I get "high" from a man's attention. My heart beats fast. My body gets hot. My breathing is labored. It's a surge of adrenaline. I like it.

2. I get bored after the "high" is gone. I'm not actually interested in the hard "relationship" stuff. I tried that all ready, and it didn't work. Plus, I start to miss myself when I spend too much time with a guy. I never really got to find myself in the first place, I don't think. So I run to extremes and break it off instead of just try to slow things down.

3. I don't actually like the sex with the men all that much. Sex is just the thing I put up with after I get my "attention high". I do my best to pretend I enjoy it, so he still likes me and I can get "high" again the next time I see him, but then I don't get "high" again, or sometimes I do a couple more times, but soon enough, it goes away - and when that happens, so do I.

4. I still love the guy I ended up with after I left my husband over two years ago. I actually do enjoy sex with him, and, I still get "high" when I see him (or maybe it's not a "high" and is "real love"...who knows?). But it's hard as hell for me to accept him: he lives with his mom and stepdad and doesn't have a job and is about to have his car repossessed and his phone turned off and is more full of self-pity and devoid of motivation than anyone I know.

5. I want a guy to take care of me financially. But, when I find ones who are willing and able to do so, I don't want to be with them, after all. I fucked up by not getting my degree or starting a full-time career; I was being taken care of by my husband who received monthly money from his Indian tribe. Now I have to put my big girl pants on and go to night school and get a full-time job so I don't need a man to build a house on my grandparents' 20 acres (that's what James, the last guy, wanted to do, after knowing me for a week). No thanks, dude -- I can build my own damn house.

6. I'm so goddamn focused on the past and future that I don't actually do anything now to change my life situation. "Someday this will happen, and I'll be happy." "I can't believe all the shit I've done; I'm so disappointed in myself." You know what? Fuck that. I'll just be happy right now. 

Okay, this blog is taking a weird turn. But let's roll with it. Who fucking cares about the men I've been involved with over the past couple years? I don't even care any more. All I care about is what I'm doing right now. And right now I'm sitting merrily at my laptop, typing words - it's something I very much enjoy doing. But it's not making me any money, at the moment, which makes me revert back to insight number 5. Actually, I happen to be on a two-week unpaid forced vacation from my 20-hour-a-week 10-dollar-an-hour job.

So....it's time to get back into reading Mary Karr -- I need to finish her memoir, damnit...but every time I read it, I read like two pages and can't even keep going because I get all inspired and my fingers get itchy...which is cool, I guess. But it doesn't help me write any better if I don't keep reading actually good writing.

And as far as writing for change goes, well, guess what -- writing about the men I've been with over the past two years still hasn't stopped me from being with men. After the Propane Truck Driver, whom I considered to be my "rock bottom", there was the Satellite Communications Engineer, and now...well, you know that guy I talked about in insight number 4? The guy I wrote about me cheating on and leaving, over, and over, and over? Yep - the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend and I are back together, again.

But it's all good. At least I still have writing for the sake for writing. :)

Ugh.

The Shakespeare Connoisseur

I completely forgot about the old retired lawyer from Chicago who took me to see Shakespeare at the Old Globe (I'll have to adjust my number scheme accordingly). He bought me a rare edition of Midsummer...the text of the First Folio, with Quarto insertions, from The Collector's Library of Famous Editions, commissioned in 1938, edited and amended where obscure by Herbert Farjeon and illustrated from water colors by Arthur Rackham, and bound in genuine leather by The Easton Press...as a memento. He also got my car in at a mechanic friend's of his who owed him some favors, and took me to brunch about 20 times so we could have "highly intelligent" conversations, and so on and so forth. Of course, he stopped contacting me a month ago when I told him The Propane Truck Driver might have given me herpes (for the record, it appears that he didn't, from what I can tell, but I'm still grateful for the incentive to fucking stay away from men).

His name was Deniro. I had questioned his motives outright and out loud. He was really pressing me to go see Shakespeare with him, once he found out that I was considering writing a paper on Hamlet's ghost for my History of Literary Criticism and Commentary class. He asked me about seven times over three months, before I finally said, "Fine, I'll go." And he assured me, repeatedly, that his intentions were good; he enjoyed my company; he just wanted to see a single mom stay sober; he appreciated my "joie de vivre;" he thought my intellect refreshing; and he wasn't interested in "a relationship" or..."anything else".

Note to self: Guys from recovery meetings are like cars at the shop -- they're broken, and need a lot of work, and sometimes, no matter how much work gets done, you really just don't know how reliable they're gonna be. (But I guess that goes for me, too.)

My hope is just to have better standards when it comes to letting someone of the opposite sex into my sphere (in other words, I really need to learn how to firmly use that highly under-rated word, "No"). When I'm ready to date again (which I'm not letting myself do until I've completed this exhaustive inventory of all my relationships), I should make myself ensure that the guy exhibits certain qualities, other than "is male," before I let myself be with him...like, he: isn't just trying to fuck me (not sure how I'll discern that, but maybe it'll come to me)..................oh, and, supports himself, is educated/enjoys learning, lives by spiritual and moral principles, cares for children and animals, has compassion, helps others, takes time to get to know himself and share himself honestly with others, takes responsibility for his choices and actions and makes adjustments as needed; is positive, grateful, humble, respectful, patient, tolerant, forgiving, loving, kind, balanced, rational, not afraid to be vulnerable; weighs decisions, asks for/takes advice, makes a God of his own understanding his higher power instead of other people or himself; is a leader in the spirit of God's will; and, cares about me as much as I care about him (assuming that once I learn to care for myself, I'll have the capacity to truly care for someone, too). I'm sure I'll add more to the list, the longer I don't let myself be with just any man that comes along and tells me I'm pretty and smart just so he can take me somewhere and...well, you know.

So for now...it's Jesus. Hey, if a girl needs a man, it just don't get any better than this guy.

The Propane Truck Driver

I wanted to be with him from the day I met him. He was sexy, masculine, a father, a traveler, fully employed, spiritual and sober. He stood tall and sat with his legs wide open, leaning back with his hands behind his head in ego, confidence. I wanted him to provide for me in as many ways a man could provide for a woman, because I knew he could….if only I could get him to.

At first, I was intimidated by his strength, sanity, healthiness. I was shy. Sick. Damaged. It wasn’t until I had some sobriety did I feel even worthy of speaking to him, of looking him in the eyes. When I did, for some reason I found myself telling him of my encounters with men. My boyfriends, my dates, my one night stands. I told him of the demoralization of each encounter, explaining to him that I just wanted to be treated like a lady, but it just wasn’t happening. I wanted a man to take me to dinner without expecting me to fuck him. Sterling was the caring but unaffected confidant, always willing to listen, always offering a consolatory hug. He had a girlfriend, so he was off limits. But he listened. Sometimes I would even cry in his arms. I wanted him to be the knight in shining armor and save me from the heathens…and then whisk me away and put me on his stallion for a good, long, hard ride.

Finally, after a year, I started to flirt with him a little, at first only indirectly. I would go to meetings just hoping he would be there, as I had done for the prior year. I started telling a mutual friend that I thought he was “hot”, within his earshot. I wished he would break up with his girlfriend. I wanted him for myself. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. As a matter of fact, I let it go, and I got over him.

Then, a year-and-a-half after I’d met him, the unexpected happened. He and his girlfriend of two years broke up. I couldn’t believe it. I was extremely afraid. I had messed up so many times with men, I didn’t know if I had what it takes, this time, to do it right.

But attracting and seducing Sterling made me feel…worthy. Powerful. He expressed his interest in dating me, but I said I wasn’t ready to date any one. I kept him at bay while I played the mouse and made him the cat. We started talking every day. He said he respected me and didn’t want to lose our friendship – it was very important to him. We should remain friends, he conceded. I was invited to his house a few times. Invited to spend the night one night. We cuddled. I told him that cuddling clearly wasn’t something that “friends” do, so we should consider ourselves “dating”. So now we were “dating.” I was ecstatic. I felt like my dreams had come true.

I went to a convention that weekend and thought about him the whole time. We texted and talked the whole weekend, every day. When I got back he wanted to see me. I went over. This time, we kissed. It made me nervous. I asked him if we could date exclusively (I didn’t want to date more than one person at a time; once I had gotten sober, it just wasn’t the way I’d wanted to do things any more). He said he didn’t like “the dating game” either, that he was looking for a long-term relationship, and he liked the dating-exclusively idea.

He was looking for The One.

I wanted to be Her. 

I started telling our mutual friends that he was my boyfriend. It made him uncomfortable. He said he didn’t want people gossiping.

One day we started sexting. We had agreed before that we were going to take it slow, then one day – bam! The floodgates opened and the sexual tension broke with the force of a typhoon. We described to each other, in detail, all the nasty little things we wanted to do to each other. It was quite exciting. After the sexversation, he asked me out to dinner, and he would pick me up later that night. I went and spent money on lingerie and a dress and panty hose. Money I didn’t really have to spend.

At dinner, I didn’t care for the conversation, for some reason. I was actually turned off by his attempts at having me get to know him. He was all he talked about. So I mostly just watched the reggae singer on stage and sang along.

I pressured him to ask me to dance, to display his fearlessness. I wanted him to be a man.

After we danced, I had him take me home. It wasn’t working for me any more. I had a plan. I was going to go have sex with someone else. I felt uncomfortable with Sterling. There was something in him that I sensed wasn’t right. He was way too concerned with what I, and other people, thought about him. It was a turn-off. That, and, he had suggested a “view point” as our after-dinner destination. We had eaten dinner at a resort – the least he could have done was buy us a room! So high school, I thought. Been there, done that.

But…it was late, and I imagined that the other prospect and I would most likely meet in a parking lot, any way. So I went into the house for a more comfortable pair of shoes, and off we went, to the view point.

There wasn’t much of a view, though – a fence, and a freeway. And I was annoyed at his lack of initiative. Talking, talking – more talking? I hated having to try to be – or at least act – interested in anything he shared about himself. I really didn’t care about his kitchen remodel, or about his family problems. Finally I put my leg on his. “What kind of a man is this,” I thought, “not even willing to make the first move?”

He did kiss me, finally. We kissed passionately, hard. He had told me before that I was a good kisser. I knew I was. That’s how I do it -- I make them want me.

I just want to be wanted. My mom and dad didn’t want me when I was growing up. The only people who wanted me were men – older men. I felt it. They always told me how pretty I was. They came into my room at night, drunk. Mom’s friends. Mom was behind a closed door with her boyfriend who drank and beat her. She drank. He beat us. She let him. Dad worked hard and when he came home, his girlfriend yelled at him. Threw things at him. Yelled at us. Threw kittens against my bedroom door, and killed ‘em.

Sterling was ten years older than I. He was a man. He could take care of me. He could love me. I didn’t need to know him. All I needed was to give him me, and he’d be mine.

He got on top of me before he asked if it was okay. I said yes. I took off my clothes, and so did he. He put himself inside me. It was hard, fast, good, and quick. I feel good when it’s quick. It means I was good.

I had him take me to his house. I didn’t want to feel demoralized. I wanted it to feel like a relationship. We did it again in his bed. Longer, harder. Finally I couldn’t go any more. I wanted to stop, but it kept going for a long, long time. Finally it was over.

I got a urinary tract infection and was sore for days.

It took me four days to tell him I had an infection. I didn’t want to worry him. But finally I mentioned it, and he said – he had a habit of saying – “If there’s anything you want to ask me, anything at all, go ahead, okay? You can ask me anything.” Usually I couldn’t come up with anything to ask him. I thought it was a strange prompt. But this time, I responded, “Just be honest with me, all the time, about everything. That’s all I ask.” 

After a moment, he texted me and asked me if I could come meet him at his work. I thought that was strange, but it excited me. “I want to marry you,” I imagined he was going to say. Or “I want you to move in with me – today.”

I went the nine miles to meet him. I was there within fifteen minutes. He was filling up a propane tank in a church parking lot.

There was a lot of small talk. Shooting the shit. Beating around the bush. He picked me up and let me sit in the driver’s seat of the propane truck. He showed me what all the buttons and knobs were for. I wrapped my legs around him as he brought me down.

He was mine.

He finally started to tell me why he had asked me to come to see him. “I’m a very private person,” he said. “I don’t like gossip. I don’t open up to just anybody. But I know I can trust you.”

He continued, “I just want you to know that neither my last girlfriend or my ex-wife had any problems from what I’m about to tell you. I was with my ex-girlfriend for two years and my ex-wife for seven years. Both of them were fine.”

My heart sank. Something was telling me that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be good. It had struck me early on that he must have some dark secret. “Is there anything you want to ask me? You can ask me anything you want.” I was starting to put it all together. But he was taking too long. Something in me just blurted out, “Look, can you just, cut to the chase – what, is it genital herpes or something?”

I was half-joking, hoping that was nowhere close to the truth.

But his face was dead serious, as he nodded, and said, “Yes.”

I kept my jaw from dropping, but I imploded from within. He began to apologize…but then the apology turned into an explanation about why he didn’t tell me. He was afraid of how I would react. He didn’t want anyone to know. Everybody gossips in this town. His ex-girlfriend and his ex-wife never got it, so I probably wouldn’t get it. It can only be transmitted if there are symptoms, but there were no symptoms. He felt so bad for not telling me. But when I had told him that morning that I had a UTI, he started to worry. The bottom line was – see – it’s just that he didn’t know we were going to have sex.

Outwardly, I was calm. I thanked him for his honesty. Inwardly, I wanted to rip his dishonest fucking head off.

I think the reason I was calm was because I could immediately see my part in it. I made him The One. I trusted him without knowing him. I didn’t want to know him. I just wanted him – for me. I was gonna get him – and I did.