Death is one of those funny things that manage to remind me that I'm not in absolute control at all times. The sudden passing of a loved one (i.e., my mother) is bad enough, but the knowledge that the world somehow continues to exist without my personal attention is infuriating. If I was just a fraction more paranoid I'd secretly assume that the universe is exclusively dead set in making my life as complicated as possible.
As a bitter twentysomething I thought there was nothing that could rock my jaded world (other than 'ALANA I BOUGHT YOU A FULL LENGTH SILVER FOX CAPE' or maybe 'ALANA WE'VE UNANIMOUSLY DECIDED TO GIVE YOU A SMALL SLAVIC COUNTRY FOR NOTHING'), but I was wrong. Eight words left me at ground zero a few months back: Alana, you have to come home - Mama's dead.
If you've never heard a variation trust me in saying you won't understand. Don't even bother relating, because that pathetic little twinge you feel at the pit of your stomach whenever you think about 'the saddest movie, ever!' doesn't compare. It's truly a black and white world where grey doesn't exist.
My mother died because of a fractured ankle at age fifty-seven. A blood clot formed and nefariously lodged itself within a lung. She died minutes after I snorted and said 'WHAT THE FUCK EVER, PEOPLE DON'T JUST DIE OUT OF NO WHERE, THEY NEED TO HAVE CANCER, OR SOMETHING'. Alana the great is infallible, and now is motherless due to a pulmonary embolism.
I've never experienced death past gerbils I had in childhood. I got them from Wal-Mart, I grew disinterested, we never bonded, and they eventually croaked during winter and I'd have to shove them in the freezer and wait till the spring thaw to bury them. I've never grieved either, at least not for anything that didn't have a tail.
I don't have anything enlightening to say. My mother died and I now feel robbed of my opportunity to blame her for the one hundred and eight issues that'll never be resolved. She died before I could prove her wrong, before I could publicly list every atrocity she made me endure, and before she could appreciate - on a Frankenstein level - the monster she created. I am what I am because of my mother, but she'll never know and she never had a clue.
It's somewhat pathetic that if I had a chance to spend just a few more minutes with her I'd neglect bringing up how she ruined my life and focus on 'you were evil, and made me evil, but I still love you'. I suppose the lack of closure only adds to the enviable 'tortured artist' syndrome, but I'm still REALLY FUCKING PISSED OFF that I didn't have my five minutes of divadom.
I tried writing, but it totally wasn't happening. I chalked up the inability to amotivation instead of grief since I haven't cried in weeks (CRYING IS FOR THE WEAK, AND ALSO BABIES). I have a feeling that I'm not grieving properly - if there's such a thing - since I have a tendency to bottle things away and simply sleep off the bitter aftertaste.
R, my editor, has suggested in the past that I might be just a touch autistic - which would explain my addiction to all things Tetris, my retarded version of emotions, and my attraction to tentacle rape (CAN YOU GIVE ME A BETTER REASON?). I'm grateful if that's the case, because I could only imagine the emotional wreck I'd be if I didn't exist in my Alana-centered world. Perhaps Aspasia and I have more in common than I thought...
So I'm back and tentatively working once again. Unlike 'aspiring writers' or even most legit writers I'm not hounded by a compulsive need to write - something that I feel separates the genuine articles from the faux reproductions. Working isn't an addiction, I don't get the shakes, and my world isn't going to end if I don't let my soul bleed on paper.
Writing is my job, not my hobby. I dread clocking in and I obsessively count every word I save to just reach the bare minimum needed to feel grudgingly satisfied with what I've done. So it's with great reluctance I return to my career, and celebrate with as much joy as a clerk who has carpal tunnel can muster when returning to their data entry position after spending two weeks in Bermuda.
Why I couldn't have born as a gorgeous multibillionaire Russian playgirl is beyond me, but there WILL BE HARSH WORDS EXCHANGED ONCE MY ASS TURNS UP AT THE PEARLY GATES. Heaven, beware (as if Hell's even willing to consider taking me)!
Since DEATH is the topic of the season I thought it'd be fitting to commemorate my return with a morbid, thoroughly depressing short story (I'm not sure if it's either, but it's fun to claim otherwise). I wanted to somehow document what was running through my mind at the time and my reaction - both emotional and physical - towards the death of my mother.
Death and Abberlaine go hand in hand (as does heroin abuse, vodka, and KGB military tactics!), so I felt it was somewhat appropriate working with her to lock everything into memory. Due to the subject matter - and my kamikaze approach to this particular piece - the story's taken months to complete.
It began on March 7th and I managed to add sections here and there on the 11th and 12th but by the 13th the reservoir was dry. Abberlaine and her ghost sat untouched for the rest of the month as I anxiously paced the house, refusing to work on anything else until it was complete. And, so, the site - much like the story - sat stagnant in response.
I'm not sold on the story, but my editor insists that 'it's better than okay'. The narration isn't Abberlaine enough, nothing like her first story (Addict). Then again, the story was unusually personal and way down inside my black shrivelled heart I'm sure that I was (and still am) experiencing a faint dusting of grief.
I think the root of the problem has to do with the atmosphere of the story. Abberlaine's one of my strongest characters (mentally anyway) and has a dry sense of humour that's constant in her narration. Until Sleep, however, has her in a setting where she's disorientated with grief and emotion, and I couldn't pull that raw sarcastic edge through it.
I'm always being chastised for being hard on myself, but I'd like to think that it's more of a strength than a weakness - at least I'm able to pick out some 'flaws' in my work without the help of an editor. The best I can really offer in this scenario is: a story usually takes me a day or two to write this, in comparison, took me two months, and I wasn't entirely prepared to tackle something as big as Abberlaine's personality (at least not the state she was in).
R said that the difference in narration at least offers a stark contrast between Addict and Until Sleep. You see her strong, and then you see her weak. Working with characters - especially ones you've only worked with once before in the near ten years of her life - can be a tricky thing. It's a trial and error process, one that usually allows readers the opportunity to watch a character evolve.
And since I'm on the topic of character evolution I need to point out that Abberlaine, once a Band section character, is now filed under the Misc. Sexy Girls section of Fiction. The change still has my head spinning since she's been effectively erased from a story line that's been with me for nearly ten years.
While the change is for the better it's hard to shake off the feeling of loss. Having spent so many years working and building on an idea you kind've sort've feel like you've lost nearly a decade of your life with nothing to show for it. It's harrowing, to some degree, but only because stories and characters become so familiar throughout the years that the slightest difference seems monumental.
With all of that being said you'll now find both of Abberlaine's stories in the Misc. Sexy Girls section. To read her new story, Until Sleep, simply click here. Or, of course, since it's been a while you might want to take a longer stroll through the site. If that's the case you'll find Until Sleep under the 2005 header in Misc. Sexy Girls. Her first story, Addict, is located under 2002.
Due to a birthday (April 11th - MINE!) next week's update may be a few days late. You can give the sexy dictator of the world an early birthday present by plugging Benway Bunnies hardcore in your journal, site, or forum(s). Alana's back, so make sure you tell the world about it as obnoxiously and compulsively as possible.
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