| www.clea-weatherby.com/blog |
[01 Oct 2009|07:57pm] |
I really don't see the point of blogs.
The world is already full of enough self-important hacks. There's no need to go and give everyone space to talk about how annoying their bosses are or the last amusing thing their cat did. No, I really don't care that someone ate your last scone, nor does it matter to the rest of the world that you've written another shitty poem. That said, here I am. Typing into an empty white space at 7 AM, coffee pumping in my veins and eyes so damn bloodshot you'd swear I was something out of a horror movie. I haven't slept in about two days, which is pretty normal for me. And that was meaningless factoid about my life numero uno. Expect many of them. Right now.
My name's Clea Weatherby. I'm 29. I was born in Ulverston, England. Don't know where that is? Not surprised. I've had dual citizenship my entire life, thanks to my expat mum and dad. My dad was a museum curator, which sounds all important and prestigious until you get to the part where he tells you which museum he worked at. The Laurel and Hardy museum. Not a word of a lie. Mum split her time between being a babymaker and a florist, which bothered all five of my brothers and sisters. We all have horrendous allergies. I'm partially colorblind. Green-blind to be specific. When I was twenty-seven, I was diagnosed with Narcissistic personality disorder. Now that my "problems" have a name, I don't see the point in bullshitting about it. Part of healing, right?
NPD isn't really treatable, not physically, at least. Not with medicine. I did put Freud's talking cure to good use, though. I don't like to talk about myself, especially not from the start of my life to now. I've fucked up in more ways than one, and I hate sharing stories about them with people. I hate feeling weak, and I hate making mistakes. I hate feeling weak over mistakes I've made even more. Therapy, and conversing with nosy people, obviously doesn't tide over well with me. I did it, though, and I am on the road to recovery. It's just not really as scenic as I'd hoped.
Basically it's a good thing I don't work with people. I just don't get on with them. I never have. I deal specifically with ideas, stories and the like, as most of you may know if you're here. I'm not going to talk about my enormously popular novels or how stuffed my pocketbook is because it really doesn't fucking matter. I do what I love. At least, I've learned to love it. I didn't at first. I started writing because a teacher read a short story of mine and said, "Hey, this is pretty good." My entire life is based on a single string of words meant as a simple compliment from teacher to student. "Oh?" I thought. "Pretty good? Looks like I've found my calling." At ten, or perhaps earlier, I stuck my name onto the idea of becoming a world renowned author.
I don't know if I'm world renowned. My agent forwards me all these reviews, but I don't read any of them. It all seems like an unnecessary element to what I'm trying to do. Reviews will muddy up my creative thoughts, throw my emotions to hell and back when I need to be steady in order to work. So instead, I turn a blind eye to what the public has to say. Hell, I turn a blind eye to what everyone has to say. I have my friends, and I have my relationships, though I tend to gum those up pretty badly. My family is back in Ulverston, not caring. Except for my dad. He calls every once in a while.
But I'm not going to talk about that.
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