I have been a "semi-professional" writer for over twenty years,- I wrote one novel years ago excepts were picked up by a national magazine and it was published by a prominent house and since then other people have called me a writer, I always thought I was, it is funny how we only become what it is we do once it is acknowledged by others as true - and only as I sit on my new porch enjoying the sunset over the long horizon this evening do I realize my entire life has been based in a fictional world that I am now becoming aware of.
How does this happen?
When I met Joe in late 1999 I was writing background for three novels and researching histories for the only one to be published “It Snows in Hell” (2002) If it wasn't background or trying to get published it was research or articles -that paid the bills-. I have always had something to say, I feel now looking out at the world that it has all been in vain, at the sake of my own life. I wonder now if I could have known, if Joe really was sick this entire time, if my nose was so far in my own false reality not to see it. Joe was always so in control of his own reality he was a professor of modern languages. When we met he knew fluent English, German, French, Italian, and Spanish and on the train quickly picked up enough Russian from the locals to get by on the trip we had planned two years ago. He was defiantly out of my league intellectually then and now.
I think he loved me enough not to fight the reality over fiction, but now I struggle with my own true story:
Should it really be told in such a public venue?
Are you really listening?
Do you care?
Am I to tell my reality or a version of my own fiction?
It is so easy to blur the line.