There is a trickle of a tear in my twinkle and there is usually a twinkle in my eye, but not always. Sometimes I’m not squinting through the smile, rather blinking back a tear and it is in that part of my nature that I sometimes find comfort and sometimes, most distress.
My mother used to give me hugs and they were often much needed. She has been gone a long time now, but the memory of that caress is imprinted on me. More fool me for allowing that in I sometimes think, for I became dependant on something I should have known I would inevitably lose.
The challenge in my day is often to twinkle over the cracks. I’ve become very good at that over the years. Whenever I am complimented for my writing, it is usually because of how I tell the story and connect emotionally with my readers. That does not come from my imagination. That comes from my heart. I guess as I have grown older, I have understood my melancholy better. It is always there, hiding behind me. I often think of Peter Pan’s shadow, only I’m not sure who the real me is, Peter or his dark malfunctioning reflection.
I was told today that I looked like George Clooney. This was the kindest, most inaccurate compliment I have ever received. It came from a woman in her seventies wearing thick glasses, but I’ll take it nonetheless, it’s better than the Steve Buscemi lookalike ‘compliment’ that I received (No offense Steve.) I took it with the ease of a man full of vanity, wallowing in my own high opinion of myself. I am pretty sure that’s how it might have been seen from the outside anyway. I tend not to fend off such niceties. My shell is brash and confident, sometimes charming, always flirtatious, occasionally reticent, but mostly I give the impression of a man filled with confidence and self-assurance, that tricks my audience into thinking they know me. They don’t want to know the real me so I give them a performance.
But of course it’s all a charade. George, Steve and I, have one thing in common. Most people don’t know a thing about us though they are quite likely to make assumptions about us that we happily indulge. We should have lunch together the three of us. I’m sure it would be fun unless they are both vegan and insist on going to a restaurant that only serves food I can’t chew…then I might struggle. We could exchange stories about how people have assumed all the wrong things about us for all the right reasons.
Very few people get to peek beneath my skin. Even those that do, have little idea of tha dark demons that slather at the droplets of my soul, rising up like molten evil to pull me down to where happiness hides in the shadows, for fear of being taken away and banished for good. I exorcise them in my writing. Darkly Wood is an expression of my inner turmoil; Darkly Wood II goes beyond psychoanalysis and unleashes the worst of my demons onto the page.
Many people assume Little Big Boy was autobiographical and while I stole some gems from my childhood it is certainly not my story. However, I dug deep in crying it onto the page, plundering the resources of my despair to evoke the anguish and suffering, that is ever present and real to me. Perhaps that is why I struggled so much with its completion.
My thrillers Bad Blood and Larry Flynn, were more fun to write, but still I stole from my soul a little, I can’t help myself. As I read the sequel to Darkly Wood, now in its last days of editing, I am somewhat afraid I may have gone too far. My twisted demons are creatures of my own very personal struggle. There are some demons in here that should not see the light of day and I wonder if others will understand the transmogrification of my broken spirit when it appears on the page.
I guess they will just misunderstand me some more. I’ll have to accept my fate. Maybe I’ll give George and Steve a call. We can have lunch again at a steak house in New York for a change, talk about our striking good looks and try and figure out why everyone mixes us up all the time. I’m looking forward to it. Cheers boys!
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“Twinkle over the cracks …”
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