A thousand lies to sell yourself

I'm sitting freezing my ass off in the Biology IT room. I was almost too intimidated to blog in a science room. I mean these people can do maths in their head and might grow up to cut me open or something. What can I do? Doodle. That was until the girl sat next to me and went "look! I'm gonna feed my monkey some peanuts!" and did a little dance as she clicked the peanut feeding button.

I was in a soul crushing bus this morning. It was dark, warm, the windows were steamed up completely and my coat is too thin to start wiping away the cold water. Luckily a 44 came up behind us and I jumped ship to minimise walking in the rain in the west end.

Two things got me thinking. A friend of mine upon reading my stuff asked if I had any stories that weren't so sexual. Julie's been asking me questions too since I started writing again. She can't work out how much is true. I can't really either. How much of ourselves do we pour into our written word? I'll admit far more than you might guess is true and much more than I wished is mere fabrication. Am I a suicidal, self-harming lesbian who's afraid of men, commitment and losing control? Or maybe I'm just a dreamer who lingers far too long on missed opportunities, words left unspoken, kisses that lead to nowhere. Maybe what I write is based on personal experience or I weave it into tales I wish were my own. I'm much better now than I was a couple of years ago. Back then everything I wrote was autobiographical and anything I was afraid of letting anyone see I threw in the fantasy. Don't be daft I'm not like her, she's an elf for goodness sake! I like to think now I can blur the lines between reality and story without resorting to pointy ears and tree loving because frankly I was never very good at creating other worlds.

The sexual side of things is easier to explain. For two years I wrote nothing but crap. Everything was abstract, distant. Anything the tiniest bit intimate reminded me of him so no touching thank you, and if you have to well then vague hints will suffice. I'm free now, my imagination runs wild, undressing just about everybody I meet and wondering what they might taste like in the morning.

That said I have pieces so personal I can't bring myself to post them online. Not yet. And until I can, I can't move forward. I write for myself first of all. It's the only way to write. But to write something only to hide it under your bed is a waste and it preys on my mind until I destroy it or rework it enough for someone else's eyes.