In my defence

Alright people. I do actually have more than one track to this mind you know and for those of you who’ve called and emailed in your salacious comments on what you think you know about my intentions with young Wicked – shame on you. (By the way, salacious is the word of the day) Especially for not having the courage to post your comments but rather contacting me directly in the hopes of sucking out some juicy tidbit hitherto unposted. Sorry, you can suck away don’t’ blame me if you turn into a big giant blueberry and need to get juiced.

While I admit that my inability to let an opportunity for a ribald jape and my penchant for misdirection may have something to with your stray thoughts into the sexual zone, the truth is I’m afraid of the truth and if I write it down then it is a truth that I have to face. And Wicked, if he is man enough (and I think he his) has to face it too.

So here it is. Reasons it didn’t go down in writing before are, first, I thought it sounded a bit hokey at the time. Second, I didn’t want to freak Wicked (or myself) out. Because it isn’t a small thing, it is a big scary messy everything.

What I want from Wicked, is for him to be brilliant. He has it in him to be, he knows it and I know it. He could have a career like DiCaprio or Phoenix or Crowe – he could. Don’t know about him but that scares me spit less. For myself, why I want him to be brilliant and why I want to be a breath that fans that spark into a blaze is that if he is brilliant then I have permission to be brilliant too.

Okay, I can hear the clamour already and I haven’t even posted this yet. The more militant of my fan club are shaking their heads and shaking their fingers. “What does she mean permission to be brilliant? She is brilliant! She don’t need no frackin’ permission.” But this blog is not about life in your head, it’s about Life in My Head and it isn’t about writer’s in general or the writer down the street or the writer across the pond, it is about this writer. This writer who was raised to be a good girl and a kind girl and a hard-working girl -- things not always compatible with artistic brilliance.

And I don’t need permission to be brilliant from you or my critics, my colleagues or my family – I need it from myself.

So there, I guess that answers my earlier question about why he picked me and I picked him. Also why we scare the shit out of each other. Fasten your seatbelts kids, we’re in for a bumpy night.

Colour Me Svengali

How the frack did I get here?  Since when ever have the desire to take on a protégé? And why in the seven worlds did he choose me?  And why am I letting myself be chosen? First of all, I hate teaching. I’ve always hated teaching. The idea that I have some stuff in my head that others find valuable in the real world is faintly repugnant to me.  I mean come on, only thing I really manage is staggering out of bed every day toward my daily pay cheque and being a law-abiding tax payer. Oh. Rats. Note to self. Do taxes. Crap. Shooter is gonna kick my ass if he reads that. So I can write a little. That’s the funny part. Writing is not the subject matter on the syllabus. 

Teachers are supposed to be morally beyond reproach. Yah, that’s me. Snicker. Frack it, I don’t want to be morally beyond reproach. I want to be morally repoachable in nearly every single way. I want to be the home wrecker, the femme fatale; the mysterious obsession that men want to kill or die for. I am dangerous people! That’s me Mad, Bad and Dangerous to know.  So consider yourselves warned.

Someday I also want to learn the correct use of the semi-colon; but not today.

Oh man. Good thing I still know how to laugh at myself.  It’s been my own private comedy channel in my head lately.

Another thing. I am a liar. A big fat liar. Literally sure, but actually as well. If I don’t tell at least 13 lies a day it hasn’t been a good day. Hey, no apologies, I write. I am a writer. The truth is fluid in my universe.  If  I don’t twist it bend and invent it six ways from Sunday it ain’t been a good day.

That is one of the deeply troubling things about my day with Wicked yesterday.  I told the truth.  Pretty much all day.  Hard pressed to find a lie. It was fun. Twelve hours of good clean fun. Well, relatively clean. Dirty words and dirty dishes and dirty thoughts don’t count. Do they? We talked. We went to a movie. I made dinner.  He swooned at my extraordinary culinary skill. We drank champagne. Worked on a scene from Bull Durham. Negotiated our relationship. Talked about Shooter. I taught him a new word – décolletage – its French.  He wants me to teach him a new word every day.  I’ve got a few Latin words I’d like to teach him. At least half of you let out a shocked gasp at that.  He just laughed I bet, and smiled that Wicked, Wicked smile. Okay, fine, today we'll stick with English.  Word for the day is "enigmatic".

Enigmatic - puzzling, cryptic, baffling, mysterious, perplexing - one of the definitions online says "darkly expressed". Ain't that just frackin appropriate. It's from the Greek.

Wicked is lovely and grateful for my time and attention and life wisdom (hah) He wants to know what he can do for me.  Truth is, I don’t know. Okay there it is, the lie du jour. I do know. But nope, not putting it in writing. Despite all recent evidence to the contrary I do still have secrets. That's what makes me enigmatic. 

 

Hmmm. Maybe next time I’ll at least get him to take out the recycling.