Once upon a time, there was a person who had to be an adult on the outside, even when she felt like a little kid on the inside. That person grew up and, even though she still had to be an adult on the outside for most of the time, she still got to feel like a little kid every now and again. More importantly, the little kid learned that it was ok to decide that some people could go screw themselves with a rusty chainsaw.
And she lived happily ever after.
~ * ~
I once created a character called Silvereye, who was supposed to reflect certain aspects of my own personality – that was the purpose of her creation. As it was, she did this very well but at the time the traits I thought I possessed weren’t all that great; she was physically weak, prone to violent outbursts and heavily dependent on the trust of her companions just to believe that she was a person worthy of an existence of some description.
Then some unpleasant things (mostly people) happened and she kind of faded into a non-existence for a while. In fact they all did – every character I’d birthed, every story I started, every poem I’d penned, every world that I had ever imagined… all of them were wrapped up in a hazy fog of lethargic indifference and left to gather dust.
Of course this didn’t last forever, few things ever do. The first creations to come back were those that had turned anger in an art form: Marina’s alcoholic, drug-addicted daughter and Ariadne’s fiery bloodbath of a war against everything and everyone that had ever wronged her (and there was a lot of that – I wan’t nice to this character). Then others began to make a re-appearance; characters that had always had the potential for those virtures I admired – strength, intelligence, compassion, agility. Miranda won the heart of her one true love after showing his current fling to be an uncaring, cheating bitch. Yuki schemed and plotted and manipulated her way to redemption. An outcast air elemental became bodyguard to the royal family and turned out to be somewhat fantastic at her job. Even Ariadne stopped setting fire to things (mostly people) and started enjoying the time she spent with her pacificst sister.
Until one day I turned back to poor neglected Silvereye. I realised that she no longer had any friends (that weren’t back-stabbing bastards) so I made her some new ones. I realised that she was intelligent and dedicated enough to not turn into world-destroying dragon everytime she was faced with a difficult challenge. I realised that she was strong enough and loved enough not to fall apart everytime someone lost faith in her.
That last trait is proving hell to write out. It doesn’t happen anymore (or at least, I ignore it when it does) but I still remember what it was like. I’m still angry and I’m still hurt and I still hover over the fine line between forgiveness and remembering. Of course it doesn’t help that some people are moronic enough to remind me why this line exists in the first place.
I tell myself that I don’t hate and that I don’t care and that I’m not interested and although it’s not the truth, it’s not exactly an outright lie.
Writing is still a struggle sometimes but while not as proliferative as previously, I feel that most of what I write is now of a somewhat better quality (certainly I’m less inclined to go and open up an artery over it… N.B. just don’t ask whose) which means that little by little, Silvereye gets better too.
One day she’ll fly away, and whether she leaves behind a demolished, burning citadel or some place she will never really be able to remember, no longer seems to matter as much it once upon a time did.
