Gifts Bestowed Upon My Characters
I give gifts to my characters that I cannot experience in reality. It is a remarkable feeling to allow your characters to possess traits and emotions that you, yourself, will never feel or gain. I will explain this on an emotional level since it’s obvious that I can make my characters into whatever I wish. Emotions are an entirely different creature.
As of late, I have felt a deep well of loneliness for finding someone to relate to, or hold my hand and say everything is going to be okay. I carry many of the personality traits that many writers possess. I am an introvert, who would rather spend all of her time with fictional, imaginary beings than ones that live and breathe. I know that I am moody, yet easy to get along with. I will forever need immense amounts of ME time (writing time). The introvert doesn’t want to get out there and find a mate. She wants one to come to her, someone who is similar to her, someone who challenges her, someone who will meet her needs and knows when to leave her alone and be quiet. She is selfish and selfless at the same time.
If you’ve ever wondered why a Good Girl from a good middle-class family, one provided every benefit to get ahead in life, one who was attached to her previous mate since she was twelve-years-old and endured countless disrespects and trespasses would turn out to be an Erotica Author who specializes in BDSM fiction, look no further.
I can give and take the emotions I bestow upon my characters. I gift the emotions to them and the payoff is huge for me. I walk in a numb haze most of the time so that I do not feel the pain of the past. I know the experiences I’ve had but I no longer have access to the memories. They feel as if they happened to someone else. I do things to occupy my mind: read, write, or fantasize new stories as I wait for the sandman. If I can’t delve into a story I will overrun my mind by counting. When it gets to the point that the memories try to tear themselves from my subconscious I will resort to a standby I’ve used for eternity: count backwards from 100 while simultaneously saying the alphabet backwards.
I use coping techniques constantly. Isn’t my storytelling the largest coping skill? It’s the ability to completely delve into somewhere else, be someone else. When I need emotions, I write them. When I need a hug, I give my characters a hug. Another skill I use, which I wrote for my character Eve during Chrysalis, is imagining myself slowly entering a large pool of water and allowing it to move up and over my body. This allows me to relax. When I need comfort I will imagine a fictitious someone holding me.
I give my characters the ability to feel since I cannot. Every character of mine possesses one of my traits. No two are alike, but how could anyone pull someone from their imagination without a similar thread? If they don’t hold my trait then they possess one I wish I had.
I wrote my newest novel, Good Girl, for fun not realizing what I was actually doing. I will say that Willow was the 18 year-old-me that I wish I could reclaim and comfort. I want to tell her not to make those mistakes. I want to hold her and slap her for the horrific mistakes she will make. Mistakes that will leave me numb with regret. Good Girl is a way to reward my youthful, naive, impressionable-self, not with the life that I wish I’d had, but the one the character desires and deserves. It is a way to explore the would have, could have, should haves.
I am spoiled and indulged. I will not lie. I feel bad about it. When people speak of the trials they go through on a daily basis to pay the rent and buy groceries I feel tortured. I have never went without since I came home again. I get what I want, when I want it. Does this make me a bad person? Does this make me better than anyone else? NO! It just makes me, me. This has hurt me as much as helped me. It held the 18 yr old back from finding the real her. It made her stunted and destined to live through hell her entire adult life. The life I lead now with the help and support of my parents was not the reality I lived from 18-32 years of age. The soft life that stunted me has healed the wounded woman that showed up on her parents doorstep. She isn’t healed all the way. Her psyche is still damaged beyond repair. She has to give herself fictitious hugs and comfort. The love of a great parents and family is priceless, the ability to shoulder your own weight is necessary, but sometimes the sad, lonely introvert wants someone to shoulder the burden, to comfort her, to take the responsibilities away. This is how the Good Girl becomes a strong woman who writes BDSM fiction…. I understand it because it is what fulfills me emotionally. & since I can’t live it, I write it.
As I write, I imagine what it would feel like to have a strong connection with someone- someone to turn to- someone who takes you as you are. I’ve never had that. My past life(because I am no longer that person) I was screamed at one moment and then hugged the next, but the hug was for his emotional well-being, it was to take his guilt away and to leave him in comfort. I’ve never had simple gestures of kindness until I came home to my parents. These gestures that are meant to heal the broken woman leave me feeling guilty when all my parents are trying to do is express that they care for me and appreciate me. It is such a foreign concept that even after two years it feels uncomfortable.
This is why I write in the genre I write in. I bestow gifts of a strong connection built on mutual respect and trust, a shoulder to cry on, a pair of arms to hold you, a leader to build you up mentally, spiritually, and physically. I write in the BDSM genre because of the RULES that govern the lifestyle but never seem to flow into normal life.
I’ve often wondered as I use these coping skills to live if I am setting myself up for disaster. Is it strong to take all that you encounter with a sense of numb and shrug, or is it strong to cry it out and move on? I don’t know the answer to that. I do know that when confronted with abuse and broken trust, most people do not shrug it off and walk away. They fight, scream, cry, and ask why. Twenty years of my very young life was wasted. I’ve shut it all out. I felt as if the day I returned to my parents was the day I left them and nothing happened in between. The only time I feel is when I write or read because the emotions can not be blocked out. To block out pain you must also block out joy and love. I await the day I truly break- the day I begin to feel again.
This is my gift to my characters- the gift of emotional support from a Master- the gift of all things I wished I felt in reality.
Delve into the mind of madness