Finding out I write battles and beheadings, it would seem impossible, from my perspective, for anyone who knows me - middle-aged, suburban, secretarial me - to conflate me with my work in any way. There doesn't, to me, seem any correlation between my self and my characters. I don't nurture them as avatars for my desires and dreams.
The major part of what fascinates me about story - any story; my own, or others; fiction or history (or ... both) - is separating from my little niche within the world. Women like me disinterest me supremely, in writing. The world I occupy doesn't draw me in: I *am* in it. For entertainment, I want to be removed, I want to experience something *else*, I want to LEARN something - and, chauvinistically, I don't feel the experience I already have has as much to teach me as that I may not understand or know.
Writing - and reading - are, for me, an exercise in "Calgon, take me away!" ... not a means by which to explore the familiar. And so, for me, the idea that I must be equated with my story is somewhat puzzling. Even knowing perfectly well my level of investment is unique, and outright strange (even sad, I think, to some who feel such passion in their involvement with their characters - though I don't think Leila feels this way about me!), it's hard for me to imagine even the most self-projecting reader or writer looking at me and thinking, "She wants to sink an ax in somebody's skull" ...
Heh. Then again, certain afternoons at work - maybe it seems possible.
2 comments:
Heh heh! That last line is certainly me at times.
It'd probably be disingenuous of me to think I didn't come across as a marauding ax-wielder some days, I guess!
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