A Million Little Lies

i was not a writer when i first read his book
i was just a reader who loved words the sound of them the feel of them as they slipped into the crevices of my brain making their way along the synapses causing my body to react
i was just a woman who wanted so desperately to write something of my own
i was just a person who wrote every day hoping that one day very far into the future at the time that i too would make someone feel something with my words
i read his book believing the genre it was promoted as
believing even as my boggled mind could fathom the extraordinary pain the incredible hardship the lasting effects his words had on me that somehow this unbelievable story rang true for him
then like all of us i found that the story had been made up the truth was not in evidence
i felt lied to duped deceived by this man who sold his soul for the chance to be in print
i know of his desperation as a writer not a drug addict
i know how much i want my own words to be put out promoted sold in mass so that i may be self supporting rather than dependent on my husband feeling sometimes crazy like van gough being supported by his brother theo wondering at times if in my own desperation i will end up eating the lead paint choosing my own demise
i sit for hours upon hours writing things i feel certain will come of no use
i work at something where the reward seems to come to those who will stop at nothing to be sold lock stock and ethics
then i heard him say after it had been years that the lesson was still at large
after he was found out in writing salacious lies sold as the truth he says simply matter of factly
i have no respect for the genre memoirs they all do what i did embellish the truth
so there it was for me a platform that had global effect he still did not own his own undoing
yes he said he was guilty but i noticed as he indicted all non-fiction writers that his face never changed he remained unchanged
he said he did not cry but laughed hysterically in a cab back in new york
he told how people sued him how he got stared at
poor poor child after he stood in front of a group of millions saying look i survived all this so you can survive too but in reality he did not survive
his pathological lies as an addict are still real to him his demons still pulling at his coat tails and his conscious
i have lots of experience with addicts on many different levels i have suffered at the hands of where their addiction became insanity where the lies became their paranoid truth where their violence became their normal
i felt my face burn hot beating red veins throbbing at the latest lie that had been told on a platform i felt certain he should not be on due to the destructive nature of his words
he is not accountable for what he brings to the world
he finds no remorse in those he hurt by selling his goods as real time events
he continues to believe in his addled and warped thinking that it is ok to say you are something that you are not
immediately i thought of course in your art you do not have respect for my genre
how could you when clearly you are not a part of it and never could be
the truth is time consuming drama is sometimes very mundane in fact leaving the writer to dig until it feels as though tears are made of blood
writing real time real talk is like taking an open wound and bathing it in alcohol
his art he called it art as if he has the right to do so as if others were crazy not to see that his work his disrespect disregard for genres for writers for writing itself could now be called art
his art reminds of the artists who unable to create great realistic or impressionistic art rely on the shock value of working in feces and daring others to try and get it under the guise of greatness
when someone of lesser known opinion sees it and calls it shit he sits condescendingly and mocks them for their ignorance
the pure beauty of art is more than shock value michaelangelo did not work in his own urine
obsessed to the point of personal detriment he worked at his craft every day pushing his physical limits right to the brink
van gough gave his mind for his craft a prolific painter singular in his kind and style he painted over 300 paintings in a year constantly working until the genius in him could take no more
monet painted art beginning an era of water impressions his painting getting more vivid at the end of his life due to aging eye sight and war
when i go to an art museum i view their truth what their minds eye saw what their simple signals from brain to hand that created magic
what is so magical about writing fiction and then lying to be published
what is so wondrous about writing something good you then tout as true knowing in fact things never happened the way you declare in words written and then spoken on a world stage
never veering from your new fictionalized version of yourself until
you
get
caught
my anger comes from all the frustrating mind numbing time it takes me to get the details right
the hours i spend talking listening to others so as not to make up things so it gets easier for me
my journey is not about ignoring the rules of writing and ethics
my journey is not about outing my family and friends embarrassing all of us in some sort of demonic wish to be famous whoring out my soul to the highest bidder
my stories may be of little interest to the literary world
i may never be famous or even heard past the people who currently read them
the difference between said artist and myself is i spend much of my day fighting ego and arrogance the two evils that will kill a non-fiction writer
they scratch at my heels when i am writing about myself all the while whispering in my ear that the story with a few minor changes could make me look like a fricking hero if i only leave out my unsavory parts
i am not an artist because my opinion of me only matters if i am still following the path i know is right and true
what others call is of no consequence if i know for certain i have done the work
praise can only be heard by deafened ears if i am looking to be soothed in a time of shaky unsettling nervousness
so my words say this
not all writers embellish
not everybody sells their soul along with their story
not every writer even wants to be famous most of us would be completely content to sit and write all day just making enough money to live doing what we seemingly cannot live without
i pity him
he still doesn't get it
maybe the addiction he battled took his ability to see things as clearly as those of us who were more victims of addicts than addicts themselves
maybe he will recognize his failings in another person a mirror i have seen in my lifetime reflecting back every fatal flaw every misgiving every tiny nuance of error i carry along with me on this my journey
maybe he will let go of the ego that has falsely allowed for his mistakes so he can walk in the light of what is rather than what sells
i am not famous
i am not read by millions
i am not rich or even able to support myself
what i am is comfortable in my own voice
i sit in a place of knowing that the readers i do have appreciate me for my own voice
my own words my own thoughts the work id do everyday to try and make a difference to someone out in a world i may never get to see in person
i am not perfect or a hero or idol or role model in the sense that i am in my work what you the reader to choose me to be
what i am to my core to the depths of my still childlike soul is
grateful