We were angry at this, high-fiving about that—flexing the muscles of what the Internet’s all about:
- Stranger-danger connections.
I invested more into blogging than I’ll go into detail here; safe to say, as a young woman with Asperger’s Syndrome, when I “get into” something, I really, really get into something, and I got mega into LiveJournaling.
But then that phase of my life—like many special interests before it,—came to an end.
It’s been a decade since I LiveJournaled.
½ Fiction: A Story from Solvang
While we were walking down a busy street in Solvang, I shouted at Chase, “Wait!”
So we waited, him posing, me at the ready, until no cars were zipping by.
I snapped a cute shot of him in front of lovely architecture, with an even lovelier street lamp, no doubt electric-powered, but reminiscent of a European gas lamp nonetheless;
and I felt a fairy-tale glimmer rustle up from my imagination, a gentle image of gas-lit puddles, cast like gold dust along the road, just for a moment, guiding our way.
Writing Philosophy: Fiction is Truth
Literature enthusiasts like to define fiction as “truth with a capital T,” which meant nothing to me in freshman English, and everything during my MFA’s autobiographical fiction project.
Within fiction lies truth became my chant, my alchemy, as I spun my past experiences—moments that were too dark for me to re-handle directly—and re-shaped it,
from it, frothy gunk, until
my experiences were radiant
spools of iridescent thread, materials
I could use to re-purpose a memoir
into an autobiographical, horror-
laced fairy tale,
½ fiction, ½ honesty.
Now I write all my fiction this way.
Especially after someone pisses me off.