In Singapore they hung people, right in the mall, for that. Her father didn’t like it and he said that was one of the reasons he never invited her there. –William Gibson

A few years ago, I found myself at a fork in the proverbial road. Like Robert Frost, I pondered the consequences that came with each. Shrugging it off, I took the familiar path. And because I’m the sort who wonders, I thought a lot about the other road, mainly where’d I be at that present junction. My idea spawn a fictional blog that I never came around to keeping up with (it never started, actually, outside that I’m not hoarding the URL).

I found myself thinking about that other road, though it’s clear that no matter what path I chose, the ending would still be here. It might have just taken a little bit longer.

With my current situation in full motion, the idea came back. Where would I be if things had ended? Another idea, another fictional biographical story born. However, as I tweaked the kinks and holes, I realized I’m done trying to reinvent myself.

The story stopped being my What If, and a character’s What Is. I’m not sure if most writers do this, but I’m guilty of putting reflections of myself into my stories. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about “David,” and wondering what a person outside of myself would handle a conversation with an estranged father – so estranged that he doesn’t even recognize his son. Of course, this stemmed from my recent run in with Javier. I thought I’d put all the anger and hatred aside and grown up as a man. I still felt the bitter taste of betrayal and abandonment when he opened his mouth to greet me. This man isn’t my father. My mother played both roles. She was the one that – poorly – attempted to tell me what was happening to my body. She was the one that warned me what girls were like – she was completely off that one, by the way. There were things she couldn’t explain to me, and I never pushed her to. She was my support and I don’t know what I’d do without her.

But the more I think about “David,” the more my mind focuses on this new nameless (as of now) character wandering about as the only world he’d know vanished seemingly over night. Divorced. Having to “divide” his friends between his ex. Finding out that he can love again, even though he will always look over his shoulder in hopes that she is following.

I started mapping the beginning and the end, because it’s obvious that even the ending I have already planned isn’t the ending that will come to light. It never is.

That’s it. That’s all I have for now.

 

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