Confession

Photo by Shalone Cason on Unsplash

I worry sometimes that we don’t know how to read anymore. I know it’s not the biggest problem. That’s a phrase I have to add because someone’s going to read that and tell me there are bigger problems. And there are. But this sure as fuck isn’t helping.

I used to say “goddamn” a lot. Then I didn’t. Depending on where you live in this country and who raised you, Hail Lucifer is prefered. (I don’t mean that Hail Lucifer is a good thing to say. I don’t mean to shit on the South. It’s a lovely place and good people live there. I don’t mean to imply that all people who live in the South are good. Or bad. Goddamn. This is what the internet does to us. What you’ve done. I hope you’re proud.)

Heather Havrilesky wrote a book about her marriage. I remember reading chapters she sent me thinking fuck I want something like that. Then the NYT published an excerpt wherein she said she hates her husband. The piece is about how much she loves her husband. And the entire internet spent a week discussing her impending divorce. Does her husband know she wrote it? He’s probably packing right now. I know Heather and her husband, who does in fact look like John Hamm. But I think the internet’s real problem was with the single word “hate.” They just couldn’t get past that single line. (I’m not suggesting hating anyone is good. Hate is bad. I hate hate. When I said he looks like John Hamm I didn’t mean I think he’s hot. I’m not having an affair with Heather’s husband.)

I wrote a piece saying I hate texting and listed all the texts I love. But I said “hate.” Six months later, people still text me with, “I know you hate texting.” (I don’t hate. Hate is bad. I do hate fighting over texts. But I hate fighting in person too. I mean that I dislike it.)

And I don’t think you should hate your spouse. Not my nature. (Heather doesn’t hate her husband). I’m more inclined to be a wife guy. My dad’s a wife guy. So’s my brother. It’s one of my favorite things about them. They recognize all the reasons their wives are kind of assholes and think it’s fucking hot. (Not that I think it’s okay to call someone you love an asshole. I would never. I don’t even think it’s okay to call someone you hate an asshole. Or to hate them, for being an asshole.)

I called a nonspecific person an asshole once on twitter. I was thinking goddamn these weirdos (not that there’s anything wrong with being weird) arguing over rounding up or down can really fuck up someone’s career with this self-important bullshit of attaching numbers to books. I woke up to a goodreads score of 1 point something. They said it was my fault. I said “you shouldn’t have worn that dress.” I was thinking of all the ways we blame women for what happens to them. How many times I’ve been hit for not smiling. Now the internet says I compared book reviews to rape.

But they’re right. I should’ve smiled more. The thing about authors is they’ve all universally been nice, especially the women. Hemingway beat a book critic with a fucking book, but he did it nicely. And he wasn’t a woman.

I’m a woman. I should be nice. I should be friendly and warm. I should hug you when you demand a hug. I should invite you into my home, into the homes of my family. I should bake something. I should be grateful, and nice. I should read the comments. I should write nicer things. Happier things. I should be happy.

Someone’s going to reply to this and tell me it’s okay. It’ll be okay. Have you never sat down with a notepad and a pencil and scribbled your thoughts? To tell a story. To clear your mind. To practice a thing or try a new thing or figure out what you’re thinking about a thing. Ever wondered if a phrase would feel stronger followed by a contradicting phrase. If the contradiction compounds or subtracts from the whole. Would a two word sentence punch better at the end. How does a para strike with long sentences capped by a two word sentence vs short sentences capped by a run-on. Do you ever write nonsense about a thing, every stupid thought, until you figure out why you’re obsessed with the thing? These aren’t questions I want answers to. This is what I do. I put it here because it’s what I do with it.

What I know is I’m trying to write and the words on this screen, in this window of this screen are meaningless. It’s what I tell myself so that one day, I can open another window and write the thing that I hope matters. But I cannot do that now. I’ve managed to wrap my mind around the idea that what I write means something different to the reader. What the reader understands has got fuckall to do with me or the words I wrote. I can accept that.

But we seem to read women’s work as confession. I’ve never seen a man’s work called a personal essay. I’ve never seen a male writer attacked on the internet for not being nice. I’ve never written a confession. I don’t believe in confession. (This is not an attack on catholicism, police, or therapy. I think they’re all terrific.)

I’m a woman. But this isn’t personal. I’m kind but I don’t have a lot of interest in nice. I’m just a writer putting words together in a sentence and rearranging those words and swapping them out until they form the cadence in my mind and do the thing I want. Maybe I should buy a few notebooks. If you want something to read, you can write it yourself. But my dog likes the good shit, the femur bones, the dried tendon chews, the antlers. And I fucking like writing. God help me. (I don’t mean to imply that god should help me, nor am I referring to a specific god, or gods.)

(I’m in a great mood. I’m just thinking about dumb shit because I’m supposed to be writing something. I’m fine. My dog is a little pissed I haven’t walked him yet. I love everyone. Thank you for reading.)

(I’m not abusing my dog. The pavement’s too hot right now. This is what the internet does to us.)

(The internet is a valuable tool. I love it.)