She called herself sarcastic and cynical, claiming that every writer was, just a little. Twain would've called her a wuss. The truth of the matter was, she just didn't believe in putting on a show, in the "naïve", in the make-upped, wide-eyed; she could see behind the masks, the "pretend" that had so fascinated her younger self. She liked movies and books just as much as the next person, but unless there was some gravel, it was likely her interest would soon be lost, refocused on better things. It was absolutely critical to her that this fantasy, this fiction contained some sense of reality, of feeling, of human nature. The world was not perfectly pretty. Everything was not always OK. Your knees will get scraped, your arms bruised. People are, on occasion, bullies. She needed to be reminded of the existence of those raw, gritty, ugly elements of life. She couldn't let go of what was real.
Otherwise, she might lose the most solid parts of herself.
No comments:
Post a Comment