I write dark. I tend toward the maudlin. I'm not that way in person, really, only in art. Even though it's tough to lay myself bare. Exposed and vulnerable for anyone who happens to click over. I went through the gambit of emotion as I watched my stats double and then quadruple in an hour. I had never felt so bare. I immediately emailed my sister, telling her how scared I was of all the strangers reading my words; sometimes strangers are not kind. It's not like journalism. It's me. My feelings. Myself on that page. And she simply said, "Yes, but that isn't why you write". And immediately I calmed. I suddenly remembered.
People sometimes mistake my exposed and vulnerable maudlin as absolute truth 100% of the time. I get that. I can understand why you would take that leap. Truly, I do. It took awhile, because I have the joy of knowing the whole and not just the part, but I get it. Now.
I've always been drawn to the dramatic side. Ophelia and Desdemona are my two favorite females in Shakespeare. Not your 'normal' top choices, I know. But I'm drawn to them for different reasons. Ophelia is...tragic. In every sense of the word. Is she crazy, misunderstood or does she simply feel deeply a million things all at once and break under the weight of two worlds and expectations? Desdemona is strong. And direct. But also, in the end, manipulated into abuse and death. Growing up, I was fascinated with these characters. What made them, them. Why they would behave the way they did. And, above all else, that neither met a happy ending.
My high school bedroom was littered with posters of and actual dramatic and Mardi Gras masks. I had one like this that was my favorite. Again, I didn't only love them because they were beautiful (which they were), but because they represented, in my mind, the sad. The heartbroken, the misunderstood, the drama, the flair, the intrigue. And it's clearly something I've not grown out of. Music? The sadder the better. Movies? Books? Oh. To cry during them. I don't shy away. And not fake chick flick cry, either. The real cry of honest heartbreak. Of real. Of true. Of life.
Maybe it's because my life is, mostly, content and serene. Normal. Basic. I'm not sure. But I want something to make me feel and the maudlin does that for me. My sister was right. I don't write to hold back, not allowing anyone in. I write to get others to feel, just as I consume to feel myself. I lay myself bare. Exposed. Emotions flowing onto the page, vulnerability on demand. I do it on purpose. I do it, simply, to live. To breathe this side of me and give it life. Because in my day to day it rarely sees the light.
(when i fall, bnl)