When I Paint My Masterpiece

I saw a ghost today.

Okay, not an actual ghost, but I inadvertantly came across a poem written by my best friend, who passed away in a car accident a few years ago, when I did an unrelated Google search today. It was a little creepy. I found it on someone else's website. I don't know if this person ever even knew her or not. I doubt they know she died. But there were her words - all spread out for the entire world to see.

She used to post her poetry on several websites. I guess this person was so touched by her words that they decided to make them a part of their own site. Amazing. Although, she was always much braver than me.

You see, I've always had a hard time allowing people to read what I write. I'd rather have sex with a total stranger than allow him to read my diary. Skin is just skin and basically every girl has the same body parts. I mean, really, raise your hand if you've never seen a boob before. What I write is part of my soul. It's who I am. It's something that makes me unique. It's the mark that I leave behind for someone else to find. I don't know if I can give that up so easily. Words can come back to haunt you. They can be thrown back in your face later.

I realize the irony of telling you all this in a blog entry. It's this blog that has somewhat helped me get over this fear of sharing my writing. But one thing still hangs over my head with a dark heavy shadow.

I want to write a novel.

I'm not overly ambitious enough to write the great American novel. I know that's not going to happen. But I've had somewhat of a story in my head for a long time. In recent months, this novel has consumed my idle thoughts. Characters who were minor have moved into major roles. Plot lines have shifted. I bring it up often enough that some of my friends jokingly say, "Are you going to put me in that book of yours?"

The thing is, I can write this book, but I would hate for anyone who knows me to read it. My biggest fear is that they will think that there is truth to the story, when in fact, it has evolved so far beyond its original idea that it is nowhere close to anything that has ever happened to me. I've always been one of those people who has thought that you should write about what you know. But this story is different in that I'd like to think that it is more of what the anti-Chrissy would do or maybe if I was a different person in a different point in my life. It's the other half of the Choose Your Own Adventure, the option that I would never take. I don't want anyone to read too much into it or make poor assumptions. My life, thankfully, does not have the type of drama that would make a good read. But I could create characters to play with, like the Barbie dolls of my mind. I could take my frustrations out on them by putting them in bad situations or use them in personal catharsis by having them overcome less than ideal situations.

Or I could just go out and get the Sims. We all know what I slacker I really am.

Thanks for reading this. It's great therapy for me.