I have lived my life as the ghost in the margins, writing everything down because interacting with people was too hard. It’s not an obsession with anyone, it’s an obsession with craft. Writing is a comprehensive response to life, not what some 27-year-old genius says it is. Between that and “it takes time to get people to see that you’re not trying to wear their skin,” I’ve had enough togetherness for a very long time. In retrospect, things look different. Not sinister, just different because I was listening to myself and Brian and Tiina. We were in sync. Writers gonna write, etc.
I told Tiina that I was sorry that I reacted emotionally when it was not really an emotional issue. Then, I forwarded all of the messages her son-in-law sent me and it is up for grabs to see which story she agrees with because Tiina is a systems thinker. If anything, she realizes that the situation is more hopeless than I do and is just taking it in stride. You don’t change people’s opinions of you. You walk away.
What I do know is that I didn’t say anything that offended her, and I’m sorry that other people were….. offended, I mean. But I cannot have that toxicity in my life- not that I cannot be wrong. I can do plenty of that. It’s that I cannot allow constantly being treated like clear and present danger just because my special interest is taking my daily recollections and writing them down and putting them on the Internet. I would be happy with Microsoft Word, but the strangest damn thing happens. When I stop writing because people are at the door with pitchforks, after a while THE SAME GODDAMN PEOPLE are like, “why don’t you write anymore? You used to write so beautifully.”
Take what you get and be grateful.
Stories That Are All True 