I'm wrestling with demons. This novel I'm working on has brought me to a very dark place that troubles me. The angry heroin addict with a thing for his sister, the childless woman whose grip on reality is tenuous at best, the twin succubi, the faded rock star who slides, effortlessly, into murderous madness: Where do they come from? Certainly they come from inside of me, yet they are not me. Or are they? I hate them and love them in the same way I alternately hate and love myself.
Is it any wonder that I can't wait for my children to be out of school for the summer? My cheerful, funny children with their giggles and pointless jokes and sweat and endless questions and small demands. I need their light and their love and their unblemished hearts. I crave Thin Man movies and jigsaw puzzles and Cole Porter songs and mornings at the lake where we swim. These things are also me.
I wonder sometimes what I would do if I didn't have this job, this habit of writing, if I couldn't let those dark expressions of myself out. I wonder about all those people walking around with demons inside, unsuspecting the truth about themselves. Some days, I'm very glad I can't see into other peoples' heads.
(This is a re-post from the blog on my myspace page today.)