Writing prose is so much harder than writing poetry, especially memoir (though I’m a little stuck on the poetry front too, if I’m being honest). I’ve been working on my piece tentatively called “For You My Best Friend,” staring at the same words over and over again for a couple weeks, trying to add things and actually make this into a full-length book. How’s it going? Horribly. Memoir hurts. And my brain is fuzzy.
Maybe it’s because I don’t have enough space from the subject. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to expose myself. Maybe I’m scared. Maybe that’s okay.
Sidenote: Are there such things as prose chapbooks?
So I’m working on For You, My Best Friend, and I am realizing that half of it, I have written in the first and second person and half of it I have written in first and third person. The struggle. Both sound authentic to the work, but the second person definitely sounds more accusatory even though the person I am writing this for/about will probably never read it. I basically admit he ruined my life (oops?) and I don’t want readers to think I’m talking to them, even thought that might be an interesting trip for them to go on. I think they give off two completely different vibes, and I am not sure which one I am going for.
I am questioning so much, and I am finally writing more. I might wait until I am “finished” to make it third person or second person. I am not sure.We’ll see. If you have any thoughts, please feel free to leave them below. Much appreciated.
Like I said in my previous post, the first draft of my nonfiction project (there’s a poetry one coming too!) was written entirely in rants, letters, and poems. Here is a combination of all three from the first draft, something like a prose poem. Feel free to comment and/or make suggestions. I originally wrote this a few years ago and have not come back to it until now.
My best friend wanted a picture of me. I sent him one after a long spiel of why I did not want to send him one. There should not have been a negotiation, but he knows his power and he owns it and he uses it accordingly.
I wonder why me saying “no” does not stick. I wonder if he really loves me or just likes what I give, which confuses me because it isn’t much.
But he tells me I am beautiful, so I forgive him and forget about the weight he adds to my shoulders. Then he sends me a picture of his dick. I laugh. Not because it is funny, but because I am uncomfortable, and I do not know how to tell him “no” without 1. Feeling bad about it and 2. Him not taking me seriously.
He knows I do not want him like that. He knows I am mostly a lesbian. He confuses me. I confuse me. When I talk to him, my voice should not waver like an old record. It is clear I have let him rot in my ribs for way too long. This needs to stop. He is hurting me. I am letting him. I do not want to anymore.