“One is foolish to feel sorry for writers. They’re all fucking liars, and they fatten on pain. Also, they invariably steal women.” — Godwin Lloyd-Jons
I choose to explain it in this way: I fancy myself a writer for similar reasons to those regarding why I used the phrase “I fancy myself” instead of “I am.” If you’ve been with me for a while, you might have noticed I didn’t say fiction writer. I consider it a disingenuous term for my “stories,” and I do this because it is a lie. Which is unfortunate given the context of what I actually do: Put simply, I lie. Prolifically. Habitually. I’m a natural and I do it all the time. Sometimes I lie for good, more frequently for bad, but mostly for personal gain. Sometimes to get into people’s pants, but mostly to get into their minds. And then there are the times when my lie is so obvious that to say the truth is hidden behind it at all would be an insult to your intelligence, a message or gesture so purposefully constructed that you are all but forced to interpret it as the exact opposite of the truth. And you can argue that a non-veiled lie, is, in some higher sense, a form of truthfulness. This comes at a price- from that train of thought, the definitions of “real” and “fictional” are a bit murkier.
Ask yourself how many times have you ever said “Everything sucks” and meant it? How about “Everything is great?” How about any number of dis-earnest text messages you’ve sent, typing “fine” when you weren’t or “lol” without so much as a lazy exhale? Or when you confirm someone as your “friend” on Facebook? Or when you read their messages without selecting them so that the other person thinks you’re not at your computer? These are all lies you tell, and you do it for the same reason I do: you’re constructing a narrative. There’s a logical ebb and flow to your communication, your hyperbole, and your silence that works to construct the “story” of you. This leads to an uncomfortable question: Are we the person people see us as, or are we the person behind that persona?
Which brings me back to my point. I fancy myself a writer, and I know I am a liar. I warp facts to fit a narrative, I leave full accounts of things that really happen in my “stories” and I change the names, and I edit people out, and I don’t even blink as the possible consequences for doing so aggresively cross my reality. Sometimes I wave when they pass. Sometimes they take parts of me with them. I use this pain to write, I write (mostly) to share pain.
Think of it differently. I want to say something. I start with something I know, something real, concrete, absolute, not-changing; a fact. Here’s my fact: I cried. From there, we move on to less concrete details. It was night time. It was in February. I may have been drunk. It involved, in some sense, a girl, but at its core it was about betrayal, which is itself intrinsically about trust. I met L. and James Errol at the tail end of that night, and they saw me, so it must have happened. Those are not their real names, from here we descend to half-truths: I’m not sure If I tried to kiss her, I’m not sure how much I cared about her boyfriend, I’m not sure he suspected how badly I needed her in my life, but then again, perhaps I didn’t either. The truth is I danced with a girl that night who swore she was not seeing anyone, and when I tried to kiss this girl she recanted. But the truth is an inadequate explanation. A progression of facts cannot explain what it is to willfully walk into a situation where you feel yourself become increasingly fond of someone’s presence in your life while also knowing from the inception of this fantasy that it is doomed to remain unrealized, maybe. I was willing to accept that as long as it wasn’t definitely impossible, I could, would, wait indefinitely. I cannot possibly explain to anyone why she means so much to me. I cannot accurately testify to my worth in her reference frame. I know normal people have wanted what they cannot have for as long as they have existed, but at the same time it’s the mark of an addict to chase that which destroys him, and I am afraid that this girl that I cried over might be the end of the line for the person I consider myself to be.
I have not cried in years. That’s not explicitly true, but it is genuine. My feelings have only been thoroughly, formally accosted twice in my entire life. The first was when I stopped believing in the word “family.” The second was when I used the word “love” for the first time, and meant it. But these are also lies: the former event spanned a period of 8 years, and the latter was something I only meant at the time, I no longer mean it, and haven’t said it since. Outside of these two milestones, nothing. The lie is that the control of emotion is something I’ve perfected over the course of several years. But can I really distinguish between expression and suppression if I only ever choose one?
I may never be certain of anything, but I know I cried, there was a girl, I’m not in love, and every passing day is exactly the same, I am closer and closer to being impervious to the fantasy she represented. Naturally, this isn’t true, but writing it in this way demonstrates that more truthfully. In this way, there is no need to be wary: I am a writer, I lie, I gorge on pain, I write like an asshole, I don’t care about your feelings, I am pretentious, I am heavy handed, I am not subtle and you will never find a more truthful sentiment in your lifetime. For that, you should not feel sorry.
