[note: when i bracket "true story" in a title, you can take every word of the post to the bank. sometimes it's fun to pull the mask off, eh?]
i've been a writer since i first learned how to form words with one of those big fat little-kid pencils. i've found "stories" that i wrote on penmanship tablet paper in 1986, largely concerned with dogs and adventures. i've never been an essayist, really; my one true artistic love has been fiction. writing stories is perhaps the only place in this world where i can sort out the static in my head, look at things i will only ever imagine, and extrapolate small impulses to their logical extremes, and sometimes beyond.
therapy, i'm sure, works for a lot of people. been there, tried that, and have SO moved on. my problem with therapy is that there's no real exploration. it's a pretty reductive process: "this happened." "what did you think/feel about it?" "i felt X." "why?" ad nauseam. that is not helpful to me. i am the kind of woman who needs to vent. i am also, despite law school's best efforts to break me of this habit, a highly imagination-driven person. i need to tear things apart, look at the reality, and take that next step into the surreality.
so you hold in your virtual hands, by and large, the internet version of a lifelong process for me. these little stories, these flights of fancy, these midsummer night's dreams all have roots in my heart, my mind and my soul. but they truly live in my imagination, the most vibrant and important part of my psyche. there's a kernel of truth in everything i say. how much of that kernel makes it to the page, however, well... let's just let that be my little secret, OK?