"Writers are the best liars"
Writers are the best liars. The essence of lying is coming up with a fictitious story and convincing the listener that it is fact. Telling an intricate tale with so much thought put into it, that one could not possibly question it without looking like an arrogant bastard. Writers sit down, at times for hours a day, and concoct little stories and fables. They create lives out of what they do not know and everything is built off an endless supply of imagination.
For writers, imagination is a renewable resource that can be tapped into at a time of their convenience. What makes writing difficult is taking that imagination and creativity and harnessing it into something that is real. Something that makes someone, just one person feel. Writers have the gift of touching other people with their words. Writers have the gift of making other people feel. They can feel happy, sad, outraged, shocked, upset, distraught, depressed, sympathetic, relaxed, intrigued, hooked, disgusted, and many more different emotions and feelings. Literature is a powerful thing.
Writers make a living out of improvisation. Improvisation is rather difficult to master. It is difficult to come up with something off the top of your head and have it actually make sense. That is why there are a lot of starving writers out there. Writing just what you know is a way to play it safe. Writing about what you know in poem after poem or book after book is like singing the same song over again, just with different words. It all blurs together. Everything starts to sound the same. Writers become frusturated when everything they write starts to come off the same.
Writing about what we don’t know is a real risk. Writing about something we have never felt, gone through, or experienced is a difficult task. It often leaves the writer perplexed, as they have no real life experiences or feelings to draw back on. They are writing blind. Feeling in the dark pathways of their brains hoping to run across a tunnel of light that sparks an idea. And an idea sparks a setting, scenes, chapters, characters, plotlines, and the base of which a story is created. It is a hard art to master.
What if your characters act irrationally to a situation and your story loses its realism? It is no longer realistic fiction, but just fiction. The reader can tell that it was written by someone who has never gone through any of whay they have written. The reader cannot get lost in the story or look forward to reading it every night. The reader doesn’t wonder or even care what will happen in the story because it is all irrational.
What if it is over the top and way more dramatic than it should be? Then the reader will be unable to sympathize or relate to the characters as it is not an accurate representation of the established situation.
Writers are the best liars. They write lies and come up with intricate stories for a living. If someone questions the validity or realistic elements of a writer’s story, then they have not done their job properly. Writers imagine how something would play out if one thing happened. Or another. Or another. And then comes the domino effect, the chain of events that happen after. Everything builds off of the foundation of the story. A spiderweb of lies woven carefully, the spider cautious not to get tangled in his own creation. Sewing a shirt and paying attention to every detail, so the threads don’t come undone when it is put over someone’s head.
Writers improvise. Writers lie. Writers have a knack for detail, that the average human being does not possess. Writers can take a lie and build upon it to cover their tracks. They don’t have difficulty remembering their lies because remembering little details and tiny moments are necessary to make a story. A story that is continous. That doesn’t contradict itself.
I lied to you. I told you the truth and you couldn’t handle it. So I found a way to make it seem as if you misinterpreted the truths that I willed myself to tell. I wove tales of intricate lies that would be difficult to question. It is not something I am proud of. I gave you the truth and now I am taking it back. My heart scoffs at me, because I am making a mockery of its beats. I am pretending that the endless beats are an illusion and I’m using another illusion to cover it up. Deception can turn back time. It can save the truth from being fully realized. It keeps me from accepting what I cannot change. It keeps you from having to deal with the phenomenons that surround the workings of the human heart. It keeps us both from trying to find meaning in the unexplainable. It makes you the deceived one, and me the filthy liar that I proclaimed you were.
I don’t know if you will believe my lies. As intricate and well thought out as they were, you are a rather intelligent person. One who is not easily duped. Is it wrong of me to hope you believe the lies I say? That I said only to prevent change, change that I was not ready for. An abrupt jerking of my routine that has thrust my body and left it alone with its obsessive thoughts. My body is forced to adapt to a new scenery when it has not figured out how to use the necessary color of its chameleon like abilities.
So it is out in the open. Exposed. In defense mode and ready to fight for its life. Or get eaten alive trying. I hope that you believe me. I hope that you are deceived. I am only using the art of trickery to my advantage because I have not learned how to blend in with these new surroundings. I am not ready. I am unprepared. I am greedy. I want more guidance before I am pushed out of my nest and am forced to embrace the cruel realities of this world. Before I bear the pressures and demands alone. Naivety has already knocked me out like a rookie boxer that is fighting a professional that has a 40 pound advantage in weight class. The world doesn’t fight fair. There aren’t any set rules in existance as to how life will work out. Life is a strategic game of battleship, and the world plays dirty. They can see into my soul and take little glances at the pieces of my ships. Make approximations as to where I might be hiding them. Until they are all found and sunk. I need someone to help me back up when I am knocked down. Sometime to give me a pep talk or push me back into the ring when I am ready to give up. I need you. I wish I didn’t. I wish I wasn’t so dependent on other people. But I am. And I am scared out of my mind to adjust to the loneliness. To look out for myself. I am young and you are one of the few people I can trust. With my secrets. With my heart. Everything. I can lay it all out on your table and you do not collapse from the weight. You can handle my world.
I am getting to the point where I barely trust anyone that I know. I am riddled with pain, but the torture of keeping secrets and being unable to discuss them is far worse. So I lied. I lied for extremely selfish reasons. I lied because I cared again. I cared about myself and my own well being and happiness. Caring about those things and putting thought and time into my future is something I have not done for at least a year. You know that. You understand that. I need you. You don’t need me. But I need you. I am not ready to live without you. I would at least like to have your two weeks notice before you resign and quit my life. I need time to find a suitable replacement. Someone like you is not easily replaced, like the rest of the people in my life. That is what makes this so difficult. Difficult to process, difficult to feel. Impossible to ignore. Impossible to accept.
So today I was a liar. I told you that everything I said before wasn’t true. That you took it all the wrong way. That it had a different meaning and you falsely assumed that it was about you. I hope you believe my lies. I hope we can start over. I don’t know what I will do with myself if you don’t believe me. If we don’t start over. I can’t even think about it.
I am a pessimist that is only imagining the best of results because of my fear of the worst. Losing you is not something I can cope with, like the other disappointments and hardships of my life. I am sorry that I lied. But I needed to. I had to try. I’m sorry. But I had to take a shot in the dark. Throw a hail mary and hope it all works out. It is irrational and rather unlike me to feel hopeful and optimistic. I believe it is a defense mechanism to avoid dealing with the pitfalls of your rejection. I have found a way to take thinking positive and make it a horrible thing. I never thought that was possible until this moment in time. This instance. With all the events that played out, I am hopeless optimistic. It is irrational.
But it is a protective vest that keeps me from bleeding from your bullet. I don’t plan on taking off the vest until I am sure that you have shot the gun. Until the bullet is two inches away from my face and it is time to brace the impact. Until I am absolutely sure I have nothing left to lose.
So I lied. It is my last attempt at salvaging the disaster that I created. I lied to save myself. I lied to save my dignity. I lied to ease your mind. I lied because honesty got me absolutely nowhere and ruined my life. I lied to clean up the mess. I lied as a last ditch effort to fix what was so naively broken.