Shadowboxing

It's funny because, most of the writers I'm really into, people like Kerouac, Henry Miller, Tim O'Brien, Denis Johnson, David Sedaris, William T. Vollman - actually there are countless others - they all write stories using semi-autobiographical first-person narrators. Of course in some respects their stories mirror real life, or at least elements of it, but I've never read something and said, jesus, this guy is a freak, or this guy clearly has issues because he chose to write about certain subject matter. They're just stories, things written to reveal something deeper about the human condition. Often one finds great clarity in dark subject matter. I mean, if we don’t write stories about complicated people does that mean their problems don’t exist? We can all go and hide? What are you supposed to do, write pretty little tales about Shetland ponies? About drinking at trendy hipster bars with the beautiful people? I don’t understand that mentality. Of course this is my profession, what I've studied and lectured about for years, so perhaps I have a better vantage point to get these things, but still, it amazes me how so-called intelligent people can miscomprehend even the most fundamental ideas.

Actually a big part of post-modern literature is just the idea of playing with notions of "truth" and blurring the lines between fiction and reality. That is a space I'm interested in, and I've never felt the need to explain what parts of my story are "true" and which sections have been embellished, manipulated, and/or invented to fit the needs of the narrative. In fact, part of the fun is not clarifying for people, so they just read the stories for what they are - interesting snapshots of life, often funny, often absurd - rather than try and analyze who each character is, and what parts actually happened.

Even when my mom said something to me at Christmas, how she wished I didn't write so many personal things about my own life, I didn't feel the need to clarify for her. I've assured her enough times that I don't have substance abuse problems, that I've never put anything up my nose, that the girls in my stories are not the ones I associate with in real life (at least most of the time).

If something feels real in a story, that's because it's good writing. I apologize for sounding pretentious, but if I spend enough time studying something, I can make you believe almost anything. I'm that good.

In fact, for the better part of my adulthood, I've avoided the temptations of other friends, choosing to spend the majority of my time studying, first in the deep recesses of libraries at the different colleges I attended, then in the various studios I've kept since. While friends from high school started to experiment with meth, or coke, or gambling, or the adult industries, I read books, and studied cinema. Of course I was interested in hearing their stories, and of course I had my share of fun and experimentation, of course I partied some, but I knew when to draw the line. After college, when everybody my age was making lots of money, I turned to art, and literature, for salvation, unconcerned about material things. I went to grad school, got a master's, became a College Professor. I spent three years changing lives, on a substandard salary, because teaching was that important to me. When academia got to be too much, I quit, to write a book.

I've learned to live vicariously through the characters in my stories, so my mind goes to places in art that I want to avoid in real life. To me, that's about the healthiest thing a person can do. Avoid real life problems by exploring them in fiction.

And yet, I'm the crazy artist?

You see, recently I met a girl that I liked. There was a spark there, a real one, based not only on physical attraction, but also how our minds connected. When we talked we couldn't get enough of each other. The conversations flowed. We had a similar sense of humor and a fascination with how bizarre the world is.

Then she read my book, and rather than discuss the issues with me, or wait until she saw things that should concern her, she ran. She sent cowardly text messages, played mind games. She ran her mouth and discussed our business everywhere except with the person who was most affected by her narrow-mindedness. Part of me feels like I shouldn't have to explain anything, that if she isn't bright enough to get the difference between how I am, and an artificial creation on the page, then she isn't worth my time. Part of me, though, feels sad, like how can this person that I thought was different, be so selfish and self-absorbed, and ultimately, psychotic?

The truth is, if she isn't sophisticated enough to get it, then she's the one with the issues, not me. I mean, I have flaws, but I know them, and I don't pretend to be something I'm not.

So no matter how many times she watches Sex and the City, and no matter how many pretentious “rules” she creates to guide her through the dating game, she’ll still end up being the clueless one, the poseur, the fraud.