You know you’re doing something right when someone puts you into their story as one of the villains. Apparently I am lending my name and emotional likeness to some sort of space pirate hooker or whatever this person’s novel is about. And all because I made one of my usual sort of comments on a writers’ forum.
I don’t doubt they’ve got enough material to work with, because as much as I consider myself the hero of my own tale, I sometimes feel like my own antihero. And if that’s the case the people outside my head are bound to find my doings evil.
It’s weird because I don’t try to be mean or selfish or cruel. It just happens. Probably because I’m tired or frustrated or just looking the other way.
Right now I’m in the process of being remade yet again–probably the dozenth time this has happened since I shot out of the birth canal. Old parts of me are sloughing off like snakeskin, new parts are growing in like green shoots of spring. Doubtless we’ve got some dandilions coming up in there.
I am learning valuable lessons these days about how to make something out of nothing.
I really like spiders, because I understand them. In my own way I feel like a spider, and while most people think of that as something evil or gross and entangling and killing, I just don’t. To me spiders are the creatures who can reach inside themselves and from the very essence of their guts they create something both fragile and resilient; something complicated and beautiful. And while they seem scary or unappealing they are busy destroying the real pests. They kill the bugs that kill the flowers and the plants we eat. The world owes a great deal to spiders and will never admit it.
So now I am spinning my web from my own internal goo and am every day surprised by the twists and turns it takes.