Silent conversation

I love writing days like this. 2,131, and all of it mean -- mean to my character anyway.

Re: the Dogpile post, and ensuing comments, I love unspoken things. They're mysterious. I love hinting at what's below the surface, reading too much into things, over-analyzing body language, inventing wildly inappropriate subtext to mundane interactions. That's my imagination playing. It's part of what I love about theater -- acting a scene requires you to hash out all the subtext and hidden agendas and body language of a given moment. All I meant by that post was that I sometimes wish I could share more of what's going on in my imagination, in the moment, without worrying about it taking on inordinate meaning -- or about people calling me "a craze."

I promise I'm not passive-aggressive. If something's really bothering me, I'm incapable of not talking about it. I'm not holding back from saying anything of import to anyone.

Sometimes, I'll feel like I'm in silent conversation with a friend, not necessarily about anything salacious or antagonistic, and I wonder if they feel it too, if our imagined conversations are the same or wildly at odds. I'll wish I could do a mini, consequence-free experiment to see how much understanding is really passing between us, and how much is all in my head, the writer in me playing. Of course, the inability to put the moment on hold and run that kind of experiment, the mystery of it, is what makes the interaction fascinating.

I don't want to sound like I'm complaining about this, because those confusing, unspoken things are exactly what make me want to write. Writing gives me a space where I don't have to monitor myself, where I can read into things as much as I want, invent wildly without consequence.