I don’t like to speak directly when I write. I don’t really like speaking directly when I speak. For me, communication is something I’ve perfected through years and profession into a chain of impromptu artworks that I basically sell on commission–tailored to the buyer and their requests.
This leaves me in a state of anonymity where I’m allowed my space to create. It’s been wonderful.
I’ve found this ability waning as I age and I’m at a loss for explanation. My characters fade into the scenery and I’m naked on the stage–acting like the jackass I’ve always seen myself as.
“Are you alright?” or “Is there anything going on at home?” usually kick off the conversations about the appropriate methods of discussion allowed in the workplace. Or appropriate jokes.
“You realize you have a family right?” wife asks me.
“I forget that.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You’re a saboteur John. You’re only happy if you’re breaking or bending what people want left alone. It’s just you.”
“That doesn’t help. It doesn’t explain–“
“Because people get used to it! I did.” she told me, standing up, “Now you just have to think of a new character to be to get you by.”
“Why can’t I just be me?”
“Because you’re a writer,” wife tells me, “none of you even know who you are.”