Partial truthspublished: 2008-11-07
All right, this is going to come across as navelgazing so don't say I didn't warn you in advance.
The thing that's most surprising about writing is how people feel they know everything about you when they've read your work. I suppose I understand why. In general, people take what has been printed on a page to be true. Yes, certainly, this blog is true. But it's a partial truth, an exaggerated partial truth, a dramatized exaggerated partial truth. If I didn't write what I'm about to write you'd have no idea that my son and I bought a present for my niece whose birthday we missed because I was sick. And if I left it at that, you'd think "what a lovely morning you had." But if I told you my son went on a two-year-old rampage in the department store, you would start adjusting that image of this morning. I could then tell you I had coffee and a muffin while he had juice and a cake and all was peachy after all. Except that he didn't once react to anything I said and I was sweating profoundly as I'm a lot better, but not entirely.
Neither would you know that I missed my flamenco class and am doomed to for ever remain an amateur flamenco dancer. But that this whole being bad at flamenco thing is an exaggeration because in fact I'm not the worst in class after all. I'm actually quite good. And still you won't know whether I really am because as said before – it's impossible to judge ourselves. Have I not yet told you that my man is working insanely hard these days? You would then think "what a cliché" but that impression would change the moment I tell you he'd taken half a year off when we were in Brazil to take care of our son and chances are he'll be doing the same next year. That my back hurts. All the time. That I dreamt I could fly and woke up with a headache. That I introduced someone I know to my publisher. That I emailed with the Happy Hooker. That I masturbated under the shower. That I am addicted to another writer's blog. That I am addicted to news of Obama. And may well become addicted to codeine. That my mother is a sculptist. That my Dad has a cold.
There, now you all know a little bit more about me. But there's one truth I feel obliged to remind you of: never trust a writer. Trust me on this one.