She couldn’t find a narrative thread to save her life.
…Which sounded like it could be an exciting narrative, but was really hyperbole. Not if I kill myself, she thought. Then it would be accurate. Understatement even.
After all, what reason was there for her to go on? Any entity in existence, person or otherwise, is only identified by what it is not. She was not anything (everything?) but a fiction writer. No significant other, no kids. No job. Just a depression where the narrative once had been.
Still, she made herself write – type, to be accurate – she made herself put words on the page. She would type the first thing she thought of, what she had done that morning, or the day before, then delete it.
Hated herself.
Was she a journalist? In the most plebian sense of the word (in other words, a keeper of a journal)? What is a fiction writer that cannot access a meaningful narrative?
A philosopher? She didn’t like to think, so she didn’t think she was.
The only writing she had saved lately were her own narcissistic meditations on writing, which she later disguised as the narcissistic meditations of a male fiction writer who was more successful, but lonelier than she was. What did that make her?
She didn’t know what.
Perhaps she was a poet. She smiled at the near rhyme. After all, she thought, wasn’t everything a metaphor for something?
And vice versa?
