It is easy to be vulnerable in a mask, darlings — I am not brave; I am a coward.
My cowardice allows me to vent and bleed and show all those raw emotions that make for powerful writing — but I have a confession to make: I don’t think I could do them as me. And so I am Helena, and you all love your favourite dilettante, because she is a wonderful work of fiction.
The me that sits in the box, bound and gagged, sometimes gets jealous of the attention Helena gets, I think. (Go ahead, try to wrap your head around that meta-crisis; I dare you)
Anyhow, this is me being non-fictional and strangely personal, darlings, which is what Helena’s for.
Not much of an entry, this week, I’m afraid. Just personal musings about compartmentalising.
There’s a part of me in everything I write.
Which part; now that’s the question.
I’ve compartmentalised myself to be enigmatic, and I sometimes forget what my other voice sounds like.
My real voice.
Am I the writer or the fiction?
Once in a while, I take myself out of the box and cut the stitches from my lips, and the voice that comes out is strange and foreign to me.
I justify this self-censorship to myself, saying “Nobody wants to know the real story.”
And while you’ll never know what you’re missing, you’ll only ever get pieces of me.