I-don't-know-anything

I’m not going to apologize anymore think what you want believe what you will but I know my heart is pure and I am an angel who only knows best how to love. everything else is useless to me

Ok so all this unintentional tummy flashing Jaebum is doing lately makes me feel like we’re gonna get shirtless Jaebum soon. Like the heavens are trying to prepare us for what’s about to happen. Like I feel it in muh bones …if muh bones are right (and they always are) Lord have mercy on our souls.

So I never really know how much of myself I’m allowed to share in an author’s note.

Do you want to know that now, 60,000+ words into this story, my confidence has faltered and I have no idea if I want to finish it any more?  You’re only on chapter 2 or 3, and a lot happens between now and then… maybe you wouldn’t want me to finish either if you were where I am in the story now.  Is it manipulative and wrong of me to ask you to give me confidence in the form of a comment or review?

Or do you want to know why there’s several paragraphs in the middle of this chapter about thrift stores and sewing because I couldn’t resist talking about the hobby I used to spend all of my time on, to the extent that I gave my main character a passion for it just so that I could recapture it for a few minutes, though I don’t have time to do it anymore?

Do I tell you about how I’ve been so proud of myself for writing at least 400 words a day for two weeks?  Do I tell you that the story is finished, and there is a completed sequel and 10000 words of a third story and two completed one-shots and a third that’s in my head and will find it’s way to paper in the next week or two?

How much am I allowed to share?  You came here to read my story, but the story is so much me right now that I feel like I can share everything with you, all of my thoughts and hopes and dreams.

But it’s not my diary, it’s my story.

How much do I share in an author’s note?

ok, i got back a test. it’s for something called ‘c-reactive protein’ (it’s not the high sensitivity version of the test), which, according to the internet, seems to test for inflammation, including that associated with autoimmune diseases. according to both the internet and my actual test results, normal CRP range is 0.0-10.0 mg/L. mine is 13.5 mg/L. there’s nothing on the test results about what that means because the results were sent automatically, but i looked it up and it seems to mean that my crp level is legitimately high. basically–houston, we may or may not have an indicator of a medical problem!

…but i’m still not sure. i mean, i don’t know if i should share this with my parents yet or anything. i haven’t gotten any of the other three tests they did (for lyme and west nile and that other one) back, but it seems like this one might be indicating something important. 

to touch the skin of other men

tumblr says “reverse crypt scene,” and it’s 2015 & Barbara Kruger made this in 1981 & I just wait around endlessly for it to stop being true that men can only express emotion onscreen through beating the shit out of each other, while viewers are left with the hard unpaid labor of reading their inarticulacy and ill-concealed microexpressions; but maybe two seasons of television, or ten, or thirty-five years since Barbara Kruger decided red was an obvious color choice for this frisky battle royale, or a hundred years of cinema, or a few centuries of printed material, or barely five millennia of literacy—maybe it just isn’t long enough, and we’re fortunate that at least some humans have developed a sort of compensatory faculty, that passionate attentive fans are gifted with sixth-sense perspicacity and penetrating insight in order to see through blood splatters and past inflicted contusions directly into character, to surmount hurdles of mumbled blunt gruff monosyllables and truncated physical gestures, to intuit or infer or imagine (depending on your viewpoint) that these men in fact love each other deeply. as long as this labor doesn’t also train its practitioners to think they must do this in actual felt life, that this is what’s expected of you, to look into someone’s stony features as they hurt and injure, telling yourself you can see their hidden motivations, tragic backstory and unexpressed-because-inexpressible feelings. or, perhaps it’s the other way around: certain demographics have more seemingly native talent at exegesis precisely because they’ve already had a hunter’s childhood of training, and a decade or two or four of life experiences, all preparing them to do exactly this, and to do it well, lest they make a mistake in reading the text and be punished by that text accordingly. wind up butchered in a bathtub, at the end unfriended and alone.

and now you will write codas that render those unexpressed words clear, and make gifsets that flay the subtlest movements crystalline (trembling hand, swallowing throat, averted eyes, microscopic ghost of a smile); and I will write about what you make, and about you: how marvelous you are, how tirelessly and with such love you spin gold again and again from the poorest straw.