Authoress renames self to 'Helen DeWitt'

I shouldn't be writing this now.

You know how they say you don't make decisions when you're blue?

I shouldn't be writing this now.

And this is not a call for help. No, this is an answer to a question. The question was: "are you alive???"

And my (very short) answer was: "no. nonono. and no. and if I were, I wish I wasn't. Weren't? wasn't? weren't?"

You see how I can't even answer a question without getting all ... 'phfina?

Got nothing, sweeties, and I have got too much on my mind.

So, this post could be 'Mediations on writing Sirens, ch 2: Furies.'

Because why? Just because. Just because.

I'm not writing Birthday Gifts. Why? Well, that was due over a month ago, and I've written myself into that story ('Authoress renames self to "Helen DeWitt"'), and in that story I'm tongue-tied, so guess what: I'm tongue-tied, because I wrote myself into a story that way.

AND I know exactly what happens in Sirens, ch 2. I try, and fail, to commit suicide [rather spectacularly fail, too: you ever look so stupid in front of everybody there's no way to even laugh it off? Yeah.], and end up in the hospital ... back in the hospital, scared to death they're going to lobotomize the crazy right out of my head.

Just guess what I'm scared to death of right now.

AND I know how Bloodbuzz ends. It ends with Renesmee attempting to starve herself to death after Mommy doesn't show up at the next rendezvous. You know what happens, most of the time, when you try to forcefeed a person on a starvation fast? They die.

The Cullens know that, too (they are, after all, a family of M.D.'s), so they are stuck, aren't they? And Renesmee's dying right in front of them. And you know what happens in the final days of a starvation fast? You start seeing things. You start babbling nonsense. You start to lose your mind.

Just one little chapter to write to finish that story. And I'm not writing it ... why?

Yeah.

AND I know how Monsters ends. I knew it from the beginning. This image was the conception of the story: Rosalie, smiling triumphantly, in her wedding gown, pounding, and pounding, and pounding Royce's face into the steel-reenforced floor of the bank-vault. Until there's nothing left but bloody fist imprints, that Edward has to clean up so the authorities don't see that.

And her one regret ... her one regret ... well, she doesn't have any regrets, but now she has to wake up Bella and tell her what a monster she is. She has to tell her to get up, pack up, run away. Get away. Go away.

BUT before I get to that lovely moment, I have to write how Kate went insane. And how Tanya was the cause of that. And how two gendarmes dragged Kate away, screaming, breaking her spine (accidentally, of course) and threw her into the Danube, like all the other refuse that couldn't make it to the level of consort.

And that's how Sasha found Kate. And then Kate came back, with Sasha, for Tanya and Irina.

Because she loves them, you see.

So I have to write that first before I write what is ever before my eyes in Monsters.

AND I know what happens in Clubbing. You think Alice and Rosalie are the only vampires at Ginger's Bar? You think only lesbians are on the prowl for a sweet little treat that night? And wearing sunglasses at night to hide your black-black eyes, oh, newborn just vibrating in pain from the hunger? So hard to look cool when a girl is practically throwing herself into your arms, isn't it? But you'll get yours soon enough, won't you?

AND I know what happens in Our First Time. Remember your first time? And she was so kind, so patient, so understanding with you, right? Did it make it any easier? AND I've already told you in another story what happens, anyway, right? Maybe even two stories. Or maybe I haven't, but I've told myself plenty of times. Plenty.

AND that brings us back to Bells are Ringing, and that infamous chapter 8: "My nightly shower" that's been a showstopper for me for how long? Rosalie gets a little quiet time for some self-talk.

How's your self talk? Is it good? That's nice. Rosalie did almost rape Bella earlier, as you recall; you think she has any recriminations she'd like to review?

And how's being a lesbian feel to you Rosalie, growing up in the 30's? And with your mom so supportive and understanding...

Yeah.

That'll be a fun chapter to write.

But then there's all the other stuff after that. The flight home and the mile high club, but before that a lay-over in NYC and a stop by Ginger's Bar and a night at the hotel. And then the Christmas Surprises, for Bella, and for Rosalie when Bella answers.

Which brings us back to Christmas Surprises. Alice has more visions, and ... visits. And remember that Mother-daughter talk with Esme? And, with what you, Alice, you have just done ...

"Home Wrecker"? Hm. Well, if the shoe fits ... and we get to see if Jasper is as forgiving as Alice was ...

You know the thing about forgiveness? It's hard. Impossible, even.

But, ... butbutbut.

Then there's my stories. You know, my stories? Like Happy Ending.

And well, dinner is just so lovely when Royce doesn't come home and doesn't call, right? A little talk with the kids around the dinner table, waiting for Dad, who doesn't show up, again! And there's all that to deal with with Royce III, but then Royce II does come back so toasted and when he finds out about Rosalie's activities in the servants quarters, particularly with his current squeeze.

Well, what do people with power do, when they feel powerless?

So Royce sodomizes Sarah and then fires her when she's not available for the evening roll call.

Apparently she's sick.

And what can Rosalie do about it? Besides nothing with Royce II all drunk and all "I'm the MAN of this house!" and Royce III just looking at his mother with contempt and ...

And it goes downhill from there. And somebody dies. And it isn't Royce II.

And 70 years later Rosalie gets her Happy Ending. Eventually.

But my real story, you know, my real story? Sappho's Muse.

You know, Sappho tried to commit suicide by trying to throw herself off the same cliff I looked over in Sirens, ch 1 (and ch 2).

That didn't work. But what did was two people die on that hill, and Sappho, in her blind fury tries to murder Cleïs. You know? Her daughter? For trying to save her mother from killing herself?

How do you recover from that?

You don't, of course.

Not even "Thirty Years Later" ... that's the title of my one-shot epilogue of Sappho's Muse. You know how old Sappho lived to be? Hm.

Well, good thing Lady Melissa is just such a good friend.

And then there are those odious Etruscans. You know, the Roman contingent stationed on Lesbos? And Sappho has to deal with that, and with Cleïs' prejudice ... for them. Not against them. Well, Sappho actually has to deal with her own prejudice, now, doesn't she? Especially after a mother-daughter talk about Cleïs choice of reading material.

Do you know what the opposite of writer's block is?

The opposite of writer's block is writer's block.

I have all these stories in my head. I know what I need to write for each of them. And I think about them.

I think about them all the time. I can't even hear myself think. I can't even ... no, I can get the orders correct, or I'd be fired by now, but I'm going around like a robot, filling orders, thinking, trying not to think. Thinking.

And my stories are so loved. They are just so brutally honest, aren't they? Where do you get your story ideas, 'phfina?

But they don't have two thousand reviews. Which story is better? Ms. Bellice's two-thousand reviewed story or any of mine? Why don't I have a two-thousand reviewed story?

And I know a published authoress. She was my beta. She published her story. She's now the Some-d-someth Editor at a publishing house. She gives interviews. She has book signings.

Before all that I cut her right off. She told me, "I was just trying to have fun with this [what we were talking about], but you are a person who can't have fun."

Right off at the knees. Because she told me the truth.

But whose story is better? Ask her: "Well, you could try to write something mediocre, if possible, but I don't think you can."

She told me that a few weeks ago when I confessed to her I was stuck. After all I've done, she still admires my writing.

Her stuff is published. Mine isn't.

Why.

She finished her story. She's won oodles of awards on ffn this and twilove that.

Hm. Which awards has my writing won? How many?

Why.

Because I deserve this.

You know what predestination is? It says some people are saints, no matter what. They are called the Elect.

A coin has two sides, you know.

I should not be writing this. I should not be telling you this.

There are the damned. Those are the people in hell. And God knows everything, right? Everything is ordered toward the Plan.

I get the feeling that no matter what I do, ...

The highway goes in one direction ... so you can go faster or slower, but you meet your final end sometime, don't you, 'phfina?

Why is it warm in here? Why am I smoking? I don't smoke.

...

Helen DeWitt wrote a book, called the Last Samurai. Read it. ... Please.

She wrote herself into the book. And she won all kinds of awards and love from fans including writers that I would die if they came up to me and said "Hello, can I have a latte?"

Helen DeWitt wrote her editor that she was going to throw herself off the observation deck overlooking the Niagara Falls.

Her editor, and the police, intercepted her. On the observation deck. Overlooking the Niagara Falls.

After she had published Last Samurai.

You know? Published? And sold copies? Thousands of them? Including one to me?

Helen DeWitt reads and writes German, and Latin, and Greek, and Arabic, and Icelandic, and Hebrew, and ...

She got a full scholarship into Cambridge, I think, on the strength of her German.

She didn't know German at the time, but by the first quarter, she was fluent.

And then she quit school, and then she wrote.

It's all in there in the Last Samurai (not the movie, please).

And then she tried to throw herself off the edge into the void. She had, at the time, three, I think, books in the works. One of them "This Book has no title" addressed Arabic and was designated to be given to every CIA agent for free. According to her, there are three CIA agents that are fluent in Arabic, and maybe ten more that know a little bit. There are over ten-thousand CIA agents, more than a thousand, probably, are very interested in the goings-on in the Arabic world, and how many are fluent?

That's what Helen DeWitt was up to. World Peace. Understanding. And reading Last Samurai? Self. Love. Acceptance. Hope.

And then she tried to kill herself.

Good news for you. I don't have a plan. Not today. Thoughts haven't even crossed my mind today. I'm not thinking about getting into my car and driving until I close my eyes and wake up dead. I'm not thinking about 'down, not across.' I'm not thinking about purchasing a weapon and wondering how brains sound when a bullet hits them at high velocity nor worrying about trajectories (don't want to hurt others, don't you know) or non-prescription drugs. I'm not thinking about Leaving Las Vegas.

I've come a long, long way, baby. A long way.

"are you alive???"

I shouldn't be writing this. It's admissible in court. Psychiatrists will have a field day with this. You show them this, I get 'three hots and a cot' for as long as they like. And everybody there will be so nice to me. And they won't let me use a computer. And I'll feel my scalp for incisions every morning.

I know.

Been there. Done that.

I shouldn't be writing this. The only reason I am. The only reason?

You. You care about me. You want to know how I'm doing. How I'm really doing.

And you write to me in your care.

"Update soon" meaning: "put your heart on the line"? "bare your soul for all to see"? "torture yourself with every phrase of every sentence"?

"Update soon" meaning: "we love you! we love this story!"

'Kay, I guess. Dunno when. No promises. I got nuthin, except all these screaming Furies in my head.

And then there's the small matter of 137 pending emails in my inbox: PMs, reviews, ... I had zero two months ago. Zero. Because I was on top of the game then; responding to reviews and PMs, publishing chapters.

Who was that person then who could do that? Can somebody else please be me? Please be the great authoress 'phfina?

No? "Only you can be you, 'phfina"?

Yeah. I was afraid of that answer. Oh, well. Mirror time, then bed time, then a busy-busy weekend, and then a new week beckons me forward.

But to where?

And I look down at Sartre's Being and Nothingness on my desk.

What's the point if there is no point?

... And my laptop just died. Yes, I have backups.

Goodnight moon.

p.s. en revue, You know, Sartre was dead wrong about one thing, fer sure. "Hell is other people"? C'mon! I wouldn't have made it this far without 'other people.' I wouldn't have made it this far without you.

'Other people' make me smile, make me laugh, give me hugs, give me hope.

That's what I got: you.

Thank you.

And goodnight again.