I am nearing the end of my NaNo experience. There is just a scant 11 days left. I have mixed feelings about this. I am thrilled that is almost over, but I will be sad to not have the relaxed sense of self that I get when I write with no distractions. I have found that my loft, which overlooks my living room, and has lovely dark wood floors, and my favorite burnt orange couch (which has been around since before I was born, and was a huge hit at UT where anything that bleeds burnt orange is nearly on par with a 2005 National Championship win) is the perfect place to write. The music drifts up to me, in soothing creative tones from my iPod telling me the trials and tribulations of Dave Matthews, and the Shins, and Jack Johnson, and Frou Frou, then a little Gwen Stephani or Black Eyed Peas pops up, and for all of it, I feel a little more creative and connected to that side of myself.
I stare at what I have done each day; a few thousand words that had never been written the day before, and I wonder if I can sculpt this mess of a completely non-literary work into something I am willing to hock, or even share.
As I write though, something strange has happened. I am tapping into some very old feelings. It is scary. Scary in that way that makes you pull back and want to push the feelings back inside, into that hole behind your stomach where they belong. To not share them. To not share those moments, because they were some of the most personal of your life.
I share a lot. I tell a lot. I have very few secrets with the world, but this book is pulling out things I hadn't realized I had never spoke of. The book is fiction, but it is based on the relationship I had with the man I can only describe as Possibly The One. I have yet to meet someone who I was so completely over the moon for. Someone who, when I stepped back was flawed, but to me, he was perfect. He lives thousands of miles away in Holland, and he has since professed his non-love of me, and I have come to terms with that, but for 7 years, I was ready and willing to do anything to try it out. To see if it could work. And to be quite honest, if he called today, and said "I want you on a plane. Now. Come live here and let's try this for real," I would have a hard time not giving it a shot. So to write about him is closure. It's the end to a chapter, if you will, of my life, and an exposure of a very deep secret to some people. I had never told my parents about him, for fear they wouldn't let me visit him, and at some point, if this book becomes readable, they will find out.
Writing this story is something I have wanted for close to a decade, now, although, when I first wanted to write it, little did I know, the story was just in its infantile stages. I had no idea how hard it would be to do. The parts of the book that are purely fiction, about other characters, and other settings, those parts flow so easily. I can truck through them in no time. But describing the most intimate kiss, and strangest rejection of my life has been trying to say the least. Writing those parts, I am so wrapped up in the story, it's as though, as I type, rather than watching the letters on the screen, I can see the scene like a movie playing in slow motion, and in small ways, I relive the feelings. I can feel my own anxiety and ecstasy from those moments years ago, and it is wonderful and terrifying at the same time. It reminds me how intensely I felt. How much it hurt when it ended. I am so glad to be finally writing it down. The feelings I had for him have shaped much of what I look for in men now. Do I have an utter fascination with him? Does he drive me in ways I had never know before? Do his flaws seem completely insignificant? Do I hear his voice and feel a chill down my spine and a stirring in my more private regions? Am I really willing to do whatever is needed to make it work? And then from those questions, the inevitable, is this just an infatuation, or will I still feel this way a year, two years, ten years down the road? And with him, all of those questions were answered with a resounding yes. Was he the one? I don't know. I don't believe so. I think we all have a few people that can become the one floating around this world, but depending on which one we choose, our life takes a different path with a different destiny. To be honest, I have to believe this, because if I don't and he was the one, then I will be a lonely (or miserable) old hag, and I just don't want that.
So what am I doing right now to procrastinate dredging up the feelings that are so enveloping? I am dragging them out by writing this to procrastinate dragging them out by writing my book. And on that note, now fully saturated with feelings and emotion, I will be off to write a few thousand words of prose, that some day, I am sure will be on the New York Times Bestseller list. Or Oprah.