All the Horrible Girliness

This one is for Pete

I don't write here as much because I've been busy giving young boys dirty advice, and chasing around a one-year old. But, really, all the stuff I would usually type here now goes onto notebook paper and gets shipped off to Iraq, to my brother.

My one rule when writing my brother is, I promise myself I won't care what he thinks. He's a judgemental bastard, but I try not to think about it, and I write anyway. I tell him almost everything, even my rambling thoughts on death and faith, even what Elmo was thinking about that day. Then I send it out into the void. And because I have a bad memory, I forget about it.

I get very little validation back. He's busier than I'll ever know, and stressed, and hot, and pumped, and when it's dark and quiet enough, probably afraid. But sometimes, he emails.

***

Back when I didn't know what a short story was, I wrote into the wind all the time, and I thought I was a genius. Zoetrope fixed that, and so did my file of rejection letters. Most of all, though, my success fixed that. I had one success, big in the small scheme of things, minor in the grand scheme, and pathetic in the historical scheme. Now, I cringe to hear about it, and Mister Aran stubbornly brings it up whether I like it or not - "She had this great success five years ago!" - at parties.

After that happened, I stopped writing, and I stopped reading. For a year I tried not to think about it. I only read Allure. Actually, I only looked at the pictures. When people asked me what I did, I was relieved to be able to say I did data entry, a respectable profession that required no explanation and garnered no bullshit questions. The conversation could go on from there, to the bigger or smaller things, politics or shoes, anything but, "Oh really! What do you write? Do you have any books? Oh, you were published there? So it was, like, a sex story? Wait, so it was about sex, but it wasn't a sex story? Metaphor, huh? Where's the cheese plate?"

I've already typed about it here, so I won't go into it. The point is, for the first time in years, I get to write as badly as I need to, about whatever I want, and send it out to my audience of one.

I got that from Vonnegut. His audience of one was his sister, and when she died, he felt the pain of it in his writing. I understood that. I've always wanted to impress my brother. Well - I always want to impress everyone, but my brother is the hardest.

***

Two or three times a week, I stuff an envelope full of Cookie Monster observations and reports on The Bug's growth and weird fears, and send it out. Sometimes, very rarely but sometimes, I get something back, like a message in a bottle:

Anyway, thanks for the letters. They are always a good read and I hate getting to the last page.

It's enough.

posted by Samus @ 10:19 AM