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1:57 p.m. - 2013-01-14
I'm writing.

My writer's block is totally, completely and utterly fucking gone, out of the blue, which is amazing.

I'm back to writing the way I used to when I had never heard of writer's block and certainly never experienced it. It's more like transcribing the words of someone narrating in my head (I have no idea who) than consciously choosing words, or sentences, or a plot line, and trying to put them on paper.

I've actually had the plot of this novel in my head for years, in detail, and I've made many attempts to put it on paper, but it's been an exercise in futility until now. My attempts at writing weren't bad, technically, but they lacked life. The story wasn't compelling (probably because the writer didn't feel particularly compelled to say anything to the world about any subject at all, because when it came to the world, she just




If that makes any sense.

When I realized I can write again, I realized that I am finally, and impossibly, not in love with Matt anymore. Just like that, blam, the impossible happens and my feelings for him are gone. I don't feel anything for him at all. I don't hate him. I'm not angry. He just doesn't matter, and already I am struggling to remember why -- what was it about him? -- I fell in love with him, and why I loved him for 10 plus years when he's been a boring, manipulative narcissist the entire time.

I'm not sure if I can write now because I've let go of him, or if I'm able to let go of him because I have realized I can still write, but I'm sure the two are connected. Matt always disparaged fiction and fiction writers. He's a news guy, so he's all about writing that is informative and USEFUL. He would respect a fiction writer who made a lot of money, but for his money, not his books.

So over the years with him I went from writing news so I could support myself until I could get a real book written and published, to writing news because I'm too much of a loser to get a better-paying, more prestigious job and probably not talened enough to write an instant best-seller so why bother trying? In other words, I went from living to write to being embarassed that writing is my only marketable skill.

I guess it's no small wonder that I couldn't write for years, given my attitude and how I felt about myself.

Knowing A. has had a completely opposite -- even reverse -- effect on me. She thinks that being a writer is "so incredibly cool." People dream of making a living writing, but very few actually can. My writing has been my sole source of income since I was 19. She makes me feel like that's something to be pround of.

I know that she's the reason I can suddenly write again. I know that she won't think I'm a loser if the rejection letters pile up; that happens to all writers, even really talented ones. It's a rite of passage. (I would have hidden rejection letters from Matt, if I was trying to publish a book and I was still with him.) I know that if I actually did write a book and get it published, she'd be crazy proud of me. Matt would still think writing was an endearing little hobby of mine. (And he'd probably also say he's amazed at what people will people will pay good money for, implying that both my book and the people buying it are moronic.)

I've realized that I really do love A and that she can handle me -- the real me. I want to marry her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I'm not fleeing the pain of betrayal and a broken heart and a broken marriage anymore. My heart isn't broken and he doesn't matter anymore.

I used to feel sometimes that A. chose me and I didn't have much choice in the matter, and maybe it wasn't what I wanted, at all, but just something I'd gotten stuck in because I couldn't figure out how to get out. I would think that maybe I can make HER happy -- because she apparently is convinced I'm her one and only -- but she could never make me happy the way M did, because I'd be too much for her if I was real.

It seems like each time I start thinking that, she shows me that I'm full of shit. A is a very, very smart woman. Every time I start thinking that, and thinking about some chunk of my thoughts, personality or life that I'm sure she can't handle, I soon realize that she's already figured it out, can handle it, and is going to make me feel like a fool for thinking she can't read me like a book, or that I need to protect her. I have to admit I like that. Love it, actually.



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