(living dead girl)
i haven't felt like myself in a long time. today i realized it's because of my hair. it was red for a long time, and, as i'm not naturally red, it made me really self-conscious. since i dyed it brown, i've felt more secure in my own skin.
who would have thought such a little thing would have such an impact on self-image and self-esteem.
i feel like i'm discovering myself again. the girl who doesn't really care about what others think of her. the girl who has a big ass and small boobs and doesn't give a fuck about it. the girl i really am.
i remember being about four, and watching TV. there was a documentary on about some fashion designer (i can't recall who it was, though) and i was really stricken by it. in the program, the designer had made these incredible dresses, flowy and light, and he told his models to run down the runway like wolves were chasing them.
that was the day i decided i wanted to become a designer. and now that dream is, in a way, about to become a reality.
we'll return to that later, once i get things organized. this post is about me, and about what makes me tick.
when i was sixteen, i was hanging out at my sister's place, and she wanted to read, or whatever, and she gave me a book to read. it was stephen king's salem's lot. i read it for about an hour, and after that i decided i wanted to become an author.
i worked my bum off for ten years, or even more, i've never been that good with maths, and now i've actually accomplished my goal. i've published seven books via smashwords, more than some writers can manage in a lifetime of work, and more is yet to come.
and still, i don't see myself as having accomplished anything. i'm nothing but an amateur, trying her best at succeeding in two very difficult careers.
why did i go this way, one might ask, as i often do. why didn't i just study to become a shop girl or a psychologist or just go out and be a stripper. why this, this life of uncertainty and beauty and living nightmares of disease and death? why, oh why, didn't i just accept and embrace a normal life?
a question that has yet to be unanswered. perhaps someday an angel will fall out of heaven and show me why i am what i am, and not something accepted by society.
i've always been a goth. a stranger in a world of ordinary people, an outcast, frowned upon, sneered upon, laughed upon. as an artist, i feed upon it, feed upon the laughs and the sneers and the jests and the jokes, as an artist i take that hate and use to create something beautiful.
i remember reading an interview with steve'o. he said the best feedback is not the praise. it's the people who write and tell him his books gave them nightmares.
that's what i feel. if someone reads my books and writes back, telling they soooo loved it, i go huh, so what, i loved it too. but if someone tells me they had bad dreams because of the mousetrap, or got angered by the witchhunt, i say good, that's what i was going for.
writing isn't about being praised. it's about making you look at the disgusting thing you fear the most. what i fear the most.
the mousetrap is all about my fears. it's about the things that keep me awake at night. and after having written it, i sleep better. i've gotten the fear out of my system.
i'm working on a new novel now. much like the mousetrap, it's got to do with my deepest fears.
sometimes i wish i could just write fantasy all the time. it's easier. with fantasy, all you have to do is to imagine things lovely and bright. in fantasy, you can just create the things you wish were true.
but i can't do that. there's too much fear in my heart.
i like to stay awake while others sleep. that way no monster can crawl out from under my bed and surprise me. that way i can face my nightmares before they become real.
i don't write at night, though. nights are sacred. nights are reserved for dreaming, whether you're awake or asleep.
at night, i watch the world outside.
my nights used to be filled with sirens and noise and people dying around me. now all that ha changed. now when i look outside the window, i see a dark night, stars and the moon, mice and bats, cats stalking prey.
i like this much better. nature cannot hurt you. it can kill you, if you're not careful, but i can't really hurt you.
hurt is reserved for humanbeings.
i have been hurt alot. by friends and family and strangers. i'm sensitive, though i appear tough.
i hide my pain in silence, i hide behind a painted smile. i am, and no-one can tell how i feel. i hurt, and no-one can see it. only the one's who read my books can tell what i truly fear, and love, and crave for.
i dream of a world of dragons and fairies and wizards and magic. i long to live in that world. i long to write of that world, to share my waking dreams with the rest of the world. and still, the nightmares i carry within my heart take control of what i can put down in words. fear is what keeps me going. fear of death, of sickness, of loss of loved ones. fear is the thing i thrive upon.
and still, the world of fantasy beckons me. the world in which everyone is lovely, everyone is free, everyone is loved.
i wish i could make that world true for you, and for me. i wish i could make that image in my mind come true.
an image in which models run down a runway being chased by hungry wolves, heavy skirts gathered in their hands while the moon shines down on their raven-wing hair.
i wish i could.
and i know i can.