I love to write. Writing makes me the Alpha and the Omega, the big Kahuna (yes, I capitalized it), the man. I am in complete control. Yes, I can make my characters as angry, sleazy, teary, or grumpy (dwarves?) as I need to, and I can make them speak out of that emotion. And what they say will be, for me, the perfect thing at the perfect time. And if I don't like what they say, I can delete it and try again. Thus the power of writing, the unrealistic sense of control.
Which is much different than real life, obviously.
Events in my own life have transpired in such a way as to show that the real art is seen in conversation, the spontaneous act of discussing your emotions especially. No trickier spot than there. I have been such an emotional wreck lately, that trying to divulge my feelings has become something of a parlor trick. I have been trying to speak without saying the wrong thing, without hinting the wrong way so as not to be misconstrued. What do I get instead? Murky thoughts, misleading comments, strange conversations.
I want to apologize to all of the people that I possibly led astray, or said something to that could be taken the wrong way. Speaking isn't like writing. And when you're reeling in an emotional morass (funny word) like I am, things often fall apart at the lectern, so to speak.
Forgive me, I can't articulate well. Clarity still eludes me. I hope that all people will do is judge me by what I do, and let me work on the things I say. At least when I write I can edit.
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