McCutcheon reading poems in public is not appreciated

[Dallas]

I will check out the online draft soon.

Once I read an interview with some American writer. (His name escapes me) He said that he would get really depressed and act strange whenever he knew he had to write one of his characters deaths. Especially the ones he loves. He said, when he is writing, they become so real to him, he thinks he actually mourns them when it is time to write them off.
Did you feel that happened with you when writing your sad novel?

~Dallas

[mccutcheon]

I started writing the sad novel more than 2 years ago. then last year I lost two people who I loved in different ways. It affected the way I wrote and and behaved. Now I am writing my other novel and it is affeting me in different ways. The main guy is a bit of a celeberity for writng a trendy 1st novel. He now lives in Paris and traveling through many countries and girl's panties. I was in two relationships exclusively for the last three years. Now I'm alone again. In those three years i never cheated and tried as hard as I could to be a boyfriend. I wanted to be in a relationship so bad. I felt it was what I needed. I think i put too much effort into it. Now I'm alone again and I'm displaying some wildness that I thought left me years ago. I take everyday as the last, i want lots of sex and love is the last thing i want. I don't know where it will take me, maybe no where good. But I don't care. At one point in my life writing saved me from myself so i owe it another chance. I have to make that my love and if i can pull it off then love myself for doing it. If not at least I can say i tried. what is important art or artist? I have thought about this and would rather everyone hate me if I can create something I think is of worth. I no longer care about dying alone or providing a living or having kids --this could be a knee jerk reaction to recent events but it is also freeing. and who knows, I might change my mind again. Right now all my energies are going towards me instead of people who pretended to love me and treated me like crap. when you go through you can get mad at them but you are to blame because you let it happen. I am getting back my control. it won't make me momey and it won't endure people to me, but I have myself and this struggle to write. i want to leave the states and write in Paris because it's the only place I have found where I feel at home. in Paris that is where i can walk alone. literally along the Seine, and it's ok. I don't think it's much of a stretch that the novel starts and ends in Paris. so i mumbling and don't even know what your question was? oh well hopefully i answered it by default.

[mccutcheon]

ok. I love my people in the stories. I think of them as real, deep in my head. this might be too much but while writing I have made myself cry and while writing given myself an erection. hopefully some of these two extreme emotions comes through and people feel it the way i do.

[Dallas]

My sympathy for your losses. Remember, all pain is temporary, it is the measure of time which is considered temporary that we humans have a tendency to get lost in. Writing is a fantastic outlet for pain. If it makes you cry to write it, I am sure the audience will feel it with you. How could they not?

~Dallas

[mccutcheon]

Actually giving the readers what I feel inside is a very hard task to achieve. I am trying to take them on the ride with me, turn them on, give the tingle.


Life is temporary.

[Dallas]

That is it...

[Dallas]

What I meant to say:

That it is...

<Two letters can change the whole meaning>

[mccutcheon]

Dallas you still there? This is from a chapter called Booze in Brindisi. Bridisi is a small port town on the heel of Italy.

It's a mile long stretch from the train station to the ferry port. We pass cheap pizzerias and young Italian men on motorbikes and Vespa scooters who harass the blonde female tourists. The Australian travelers are fairing better than the American sorority girls. The co-eds have made the mistake of asking for directions. The cocky boys are trying to prove love at first sight.

At the end of the road the ferry port sits with the fading sunset behind it. It's quite lovely. I am about to point this out to the boys, when I turn and see they are in an altercation with the natives. Don is trying to earn respect for a few of the co-eds. He shouldn't bother. Back in school they never had the time for him.

Don has got one of the skinny Italians by the neck. I rush over.

“Don't be grabbing these girl's butts man,� Don yells.

The Italian raises his hands in innocence.

“Don, let go,� I say.

“That asshole pinched my butt,� the victim states. “All I wanted to know is where we could get a real pizza, ya know, like the kind at Pizza Hut.�