Don't believe everything I write...

Princess Tutu. The writer as the magician. That’s what I thought. He dies before finishing his story about the evil crow and the handsome, kindly prince, leaving the two locked forever in battle. Itching to be released from the bounds of an unfinished tale, the crow escapes from the book and in order to chase after the evil crow, the prince shatters his own heart into a million pieces.

This brings us to the yellow duck, who sees the empty prince dancing beautifully by the lakeshore. She makes a wish and the writer hears her, granting her wish. She becomes a young girl, on a quest to retrieve the empty prince’s heart pieces. From an awkward duck she becomes Princess Tutu – who in another story, chases after her prince, but never gets to be with him.

I’m not truly a writer. I’m a wannabe writer. Long seasons can pass before I think of writing again. The thoughts flow through my head. But I don’t write them down. At least not on paper. I write them in my heart.

Like Amy Tan’s character in “Woman Warrior,” I live among ghosts. In the midst of sewing the hem for my jeans, I turn to the sound of my name whispered in the dark. I peer in vain and shake the fear out. My mind is playing tricks again. I have an imaginary friend who has been with me since childhood. I don’t know where he goes – sometimes he leaves days, months at a time. But he always comes back to me, filled with stories and sometimes with treats. I know his name, but can never say his name. It’s forbidden.

I am neither 6 nor 60 years old. Time ebbs and I watch it drain away. I am neither morose nor chirpy. The ways of men do not hold much interest for me. I am a liar and I am a truth seeker. The words are mine, and the words aren’t mine.