Somewhere in my thirties, I suddenly became obsessed with heroes and heroines that were "flawed." And people, too.
I read Laurell K. Hamilton’s blog every day, and let me tell you, maybe its just how she comes across, but that lady is depressed. And I love it. I love that she gets out there every day and spits out what is real, what is raw.
There’s such bravery in that, you know?
In some strange quirk of fate, I don’t really connect with someone until they are real. I’ve known people to be chipper and positive and say all the right things and do all the right things, and they kind of mystify me. But I don’t trust them until they let their guard down and say something real, show some raw emotion, or maybe just reveal a vulnerability.
In a group of ladies I know, there’s one of those women who, when she talks, everything comes out negative and contrary. That’s just the way she is, she’s a good person at heart and I really like her.
In everyone, I believe there’s one small place, one raw, vulnerable place. Some spot you go, where if someone just pushed their finger with the slightest pressure, you’d be undone, be unraveled and could only cry in utter submission to the pain.
Or sometimes it’s a hope. A little, scared kernel of desire that you’re afraid to admit to anyone.
When you can share that place with a really close friend or lover and they can love you for it, it’s special. And it’s a treasured gift to receive, when someone shares their place with you.
Sometimes when I write, I imagine that raw, vulnerable place in myself or my imaginary reader-friends. I want to reach toward that place, open up that place, and then gently massage it.
(Sheesh, what’s with the deep thoughts today?) Who do you think of, when you write?