veemignon: (julietspirits)
I wrote the prologue in a salon.

Waiting to have my hair cut, I was visited by a vision of violence. I remember thinking I was a horrible person. Who waits in a salon while writing about these sort of things? Why couldn't I just pick up a gossip magazine and immerse myself in the lives of others? I dug through my bag, searching out my school notebook, and began writing immediately. Women gossiping with their hair in foil, the scent of nail polish, and all I could think of was how to describe blood. When my name was called, I barely heard it, hovering over my head like dissipating smoke.

As she cut my hair, she tried engaging me in conversation. I had been lost to another realm. Another me. This other me had succeeded once again in stealing me away. Later, as I looked over what I had written, I was horrified. Is this what Veronica writes? It would take me a full two years to accept that other me. Our wavering relationship; at a younger age, I readily accepted that part of me. But as I grew older, as a feeling of authority washed over me, I had turned my back on it, allowing it to run rampant. That other me, skirting past my eyes when I wasn't looking. We had to make an agreement, this me and I. I had to learn, like Harry Haller, that the other Veronicas were all Veronica.

The other night, I found a collection of older writing. Papers I hadn't thrown away, pieces written for creative writing classes, and even reports from the fifth grade. A time capsule of my mind, opinions I didn't agree with, superfluous writing that had been necessary upon reflection. I went through it all very slowly.

Words of encouragement )


veemignon: (Default)

February 2013

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